


Pray for Plagues (To Come Down on this Egypt)

by A_J_Crowley, JennaCupcakes



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Europe, M/M, Non-Graphic Descriptions of Torture, Road Trips, overall bad mental states, post-apocalyptic landscapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22509556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_J_Crowley/pseuds/A_J_Crowley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: A couple of miles short of the Romanian border, Aziraphale regained consciousness again for a while.“Whose car is this?” He asked.“Someone else’s,” Crowley forced out between gritted teeth.OR how busting your boyfriend out of Heaven and the subsequent escape across the continent might ruin your day, week, and month.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 78
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Pray for Plagues (To Come Down on this Egypt)

**Author's Note:**

> In July 2019, my friend seasidesonnets sent me a link to an album, the recommendation to which went something like ‘transangelic exodus by ezra furman is a dark roadtrip take on a/c and you cant convince me otherwise’. I didn’t try. Instead, I spent the next month being late to appointments because I stopped to scribble fic snippets in my notebook.
> 
> The first song, ‘Suck the Blood from My Wound’, about a prison break and a road trip with an injured angel on the passenger seat, is what inspired this story. My first thanks belong to seasidesonnets, for introducing me to the album, and to Ezra, for writing it. 
> 
> In light of this, the title of this fic is taken from a second song on the album, ‘God Lifts Up the Lowly’. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my artist, [songbird-of-eden](https://songbird-of-eden.tumblr.com/). Your wonderful art managed to capture the heart of my story even before I really felt I knew what it was, and it inspired me to keep writing so many times! I am truly honoured to have worked with an artist with such talent and a beautiful imagination. 
> 
> I want to thank my lovely betas [segoe-print](https://segoe-print.tumblr.com/) and [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom), for their endless patience, unimaginably helpful suggestions, and critical eye. You made sure my many mistakes were caught and truly polished up the fic. 
> 
> Lastly, thanks to the Big Bang team. You created a wonderful event, and I am glad I got to participate in it. 
> 
> There are two Kris Kristofferson songs mentioned in this story – the first one is ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. The second one is ‘The Pilgrim, Chapter 33’. 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at [veganthranduil](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/).

Crowley had to stop for gas twenty miles outside of Dover.

He cursed under his breath when he saw the needle tick down towards zero, and he cursed under his breath when he pulled into the gas station, and he cursed under his breath when he got out of the car. So close. Stupid. At this point, it wasn’t even worth refilling the whole tank.

Besides, he didn’t have enough cash on hand anyway.

He put some gas into the tank, and he paid with twenty quid he’d found stuffed between the seat cushions of the Bentley. That should get him the rest of the way. If not, it wouldn’t matter, anyway.

He got back in the car and cast a look at the passed-out angel in the passenger seat. Aziraphale looked deceptively peaceful, his face relaxed and mouth half open, not a hair out of place. The only thing wrong with him was that he hadn’t been lucid since Dartford, and he’d stopped breathing around Chatham. And all that was still a world better than when he’d been _conscious_. Crowley shuddered at the memory of those screams.

Just before Dover, he pulled off the motorway. The address the man had given him led him to a two-story brick house with a moderately well-kept yard. Crowley honked once and leaned back in his seat. His hand purposefully caressed the Bentley’s steering wheel, trying to commit it to memory. 

Not a minute later, the front door opened, and a man came out. He was balding but seemed to lean into it. Crowley didn’t like him.

Crowley leaned over. 

“Aziraphale,” He said, “I need you here for just a minute.”

He dropped the most miniscule amount of suggestion into it, and even that made him feel nauseous with fear. It was a tightrope walk – he didn’t want Aziraphale to start screaming again, either. He just had to hope.

No time to lose now.

Aziraphale’s eyes opened. His brows knitted together in confusion.

“Get out of the car,” Crowley said, the authority of his voice still supernatural.

Aziraphale did as he was told.

Crowley followed and stepped around the car with brisk steps. The man held an envelope that was bulging. Crowley held out his car keys. The two items changed hands.

“Your ride’s in the driveway,” The man said. Crowley nodded solemnly, stuffing the envelope into his back pocket. “Key’s in the ignition.”

With that, the man went back inside.

Crowley got Aziraphale into the aging Ford Focus that was waiting in the driveway, then got behind the wheel. The keys – as promised – were in the ignition.

“Go back to sleep,” He told Aziraphale, and started driving.

* * *

**SOHO, LONDON, THREE WEEKS PRIOR.**

They were in the kitchen, cooking.

The kitchen was a new addition to Aziraphale’s flat. It postdated the apocalypse-that-wasn’t by about five weeks, weeks in which Crowley and Aziraphale had started living in each other’s pockets like a couple in their honeymoon phase in the first semester of university.

They had decided on the kitchen shortly after Anathema had suggested – politely, but firmly – that Aziraphale and Crowley should maybe re-examine the labels they applied to their relationship. They did, and with labels like ‘husband’ (or ‘significant other’, which Crowley preferred because gender, to him, was best viewed from a distance) came other things, like an actual living together that was more than just sharing space. A life together. And life needed things like double mattresses and twice as many bathroom towels, a new closet (because Aziraphale had not previously owned a closet, either), and lastly, a kitchen.

It had been Crowley’s idea.

Aziraphale had cooked before, but always in situations that made Crowley think about pitching Aziraphale’s ventures to Netflix for a cooking show. He made Gulyás with an old couple in Hungary, over an open fire in a tripod pot. He learned how to make sushi from a Japanese chef. Crowley knew, for a fact, that Aziraphale still received handwritten letters from a Korean woman who’d taught Aziraphale a dish Crowley couldn’t even pronounce. He’d studied the art in Mesopotamia, in Jerusalem and in France, in Egypt and in South America.

But Aziraphale never _cooked_. He just collected recipes, like he collected books, and Crowley found, that, as Aziraphale’s significant other, his husband was holding out on him. And so, when they moved in together, Crowley insisted on a kitchen.

Which they were currently in.

Aziraphale was wearing an apron, because he still refused to own more than one outfit. At least he’d taken off his vest for cooking, and had rolled up his sleeves. The apron was necessary, since his entire front was covered in flour. Before him was a pizza dough he was currently trying to frown into submission more than actually kneading it. Crowley was lazily stirring a sauce that had reached the perfect balance of tomato-y acidity and salty goodness about five minutes prior and was now just bubbling away happily, spreading the smell of garlic and basil all through the kitchen. On the countertop, just off to the side, were a bowl of cheese and several bowls of toppings they had prepared earlier.

“How do you do it?” Crowley said, because looking at Aziraphale still made his heart ache sometimes with perfect longing.

“Hm?”

Aziraphale smacked the dough against the countertop again. It resonated with a satisfying bang. Flour settled like fine dust over Aziraphale’s hands and forearms.

Crowley abandoned the sauce for a moment and stepped over to Aziraphale. He wrapped his arms around his husband from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“Be so effortlessly gorgeous. How do you do it?” He whispered in Aziraphale’s ear.

He couldn’t see his face, but from the stammer in Aziraphale’s voice he could tell that he was blushing.

“Oh, Crowley, my dear, I – stop it, I’m trying to… you’re being silly.”

Crowley pressed a kiss half against Aziraphale’s ear and half against his cheek.

“Maybe.”

Aziraphale turned his face and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s lips that was somehow short and yet endless. It was short in that it was only a brief press of lips, it was endless in that it promised an infinite string of such kisses, all the way until the end of the universe, because Aziraphale loved Crowley.

Crowley returned to stirring the sauce. Aziraphale returned to punching the dough. They made pizza and ate it while drinking copious amounts of red wine, first from the bottle Crowley had opened for the sauce, and then from another bottle – maybe bought, maybe miracled into existence, Crowley could never remember later. And they talked, and Aziraphale complained about how he knew an Italian chef that made a much better pizza, and Crowley took his hand as he agreed with him, but knew they would keep making their own anyway, because nothing could compare to the fullness in his heart that came from creating something with Aziraphale.

They went to bed with stupid smiles on their faces. Aziraphale kissed Crowley for a long time, and Crowley – as always – got overwhelmed by the pure love and adoration reserved for him. Aziraphale kissed him like the sweetest dessert. Aziraphale kissed him like it was an art. Aziraphale kissed him like he didn’t have a choice. Aziraphale kissed him like he had a choice, and the choice he had made was Crowley.

Crowley held Aziraphale in the crook of his arm as they went to sleep. Maybe there was talk, maybe there wasn’t – always the small details Crowley couldn’t remember later – but they went to sleep like this: close, warm, safe, the smell of the other a comfort even to the sleeping mind, inseparable souls in two separate bodies.

When Crowley woke up, it was with his arms held down and a hand over his mouth – the blinding fear of suffocation overwhelming him, until he became conscious enough to see four angels dragging away Aziraphale, bound and gagged, like an image out of his worst nightmare. Except it wasn’t a nightmare. Not one he could wake up from, anyway.

* * *

**DOVER, ENGLAND, DAY ONE ON THE ROAD.**

Crowley got seasick on the ferry.

He hadn’t realised that seasickness was a problem he’d miracled his way out of for six thousand years of existence, but now that he couldn’t, it was abundantly clear to him that he had, and with good reason. The constant roiling of the ocean left him exhausted, his skin felt clammy, and his hands were shaky.

Aziraphale was still out cold.

Crowley had paced the entire length, breadth, and depth of the ship, as far as they would allow him. Most of it was uncomfortable lobbies adorned with benches with armrests in between seats – Crowley dimly remembered suggesting those to Hell. There were bars selling overpriced drinks.

The employees all seemed satisfyingly human, though without his additional senses, Crowley couldn’t be quite sure. The other passengers mostly looked like tourists, and some businesspeople afraid of flying. Still, there were too many of them. Crowley could never be quite sure that there weren’t any supernatural beings following them.

He’d punched the route he was intending to take into Google Maps before they’d left Dover. It had informed him that his drive was going to be nineteen hours long – breaks not included – that he would be required to take vehicle transportation – which he was currently on – that on this route he would have to pay a toll – which he guessed meant money, but he could already feel a toll of the mental kind building up – that his route would lead him through France – which was unfortunate, but unavoidable – and that his destination was in a different time zone. Google Maps said nothing about potential encounters with angels who wanted to kill them, so Crowley hoped that their luck would hold.

Precious little he could do about it if it didn’t, anyway.

The ferry ride was just under two hours, and while the nightly North Sea rolled around them, Crowley returned to the car, where Aziraphale – to the uninitiated observer – still looked like he was napping.

Crowley forced himself to look at Aziraphale. If his angel was beyond repair now, that was a little bit on him, too. Crowley hadn’t come looking for him. Not soon enough, anyway.

Crowley drew his knees to his chest, crouched in the driver’s seat. He had the doors of the car locked, and only like this – solid metal at his back, Aziraphale in his line of sight – did he feel a modicum of safety. He let out a deep breath.

He woke up twenty minutes later by a member of the traffic assistance of the boat crew knocking on his window, angrily waving him off the boat.

The village on this side of the Channel was full of low, brick-red houses. The sky was North Sea grey, the wind whipping the trees and pulling them this way now and another the next second. Crowley put them back on the motorway, anxious about the wide sky above and flat lands around them that promised no cover from watchful eyes.

* * *

**SOHO, LONDON, NINETEEN DAYS PRIOR.**

Crowley endeavoured to have as little consciousness as possible. That he still had to regain it sometimes to maintain the ideal state of inebriation was regrettable.

They had taken Aziraphale. It wasn’t a mix-up this time, either – he’d seen it with his very own eyes. Heaven had come for Aziraphale to finish what they had started when Crowley was in his place.

Crowley suddenly found life to hold very little meaning.

If Hell wouldn’t finish him, he would do it himself.

London offered ample opportunities for a man with enough money to lose himself completely. Within two days, Crowley had frequented a sizeable number of bars, and still found others that would serve him. Eventually, he reasoned, this corporation’s liver would have to give out. Then Hell could finish the job.

He should have known it was too good to last. There had never been one good thing in his life he’d been able to keep – he’d lost God’s love, and everything after that just carried the taste of ash, with the notable exception of Aziraphale. And Crowley had only been able to keep him as long as Aziraphale stayed at arm’s length, apparently.

He was a demon. He should have known.

He withered everything he touched.

* * *

**ROME, ITALY, DAY TWO ON THE ROAD.**

Crowley hated Rome.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here – probably around the Renaissance, he realised. It hadn’t changed much.

The crosses didn’t bother him so much. Nor did the omnipresence of churches, statues to the Virgin (heh!) Mary, or the wildly inaccurate depictions of angels. Even the Vatican had its charm, he would admit, mostly because he’d spent more time there than any good Catholic would think possible for a demon. No, it was the people he saw, every single one who ducked into a church on their way to work, or before their lunch break, the tourists suddenly discovering their religious side and lighting candles to a saint they’d never heard of before.

Crowley’s contact lived just off the Piazza del Popolo. Or at least, that was where he’d lived the last time Crowley had visited – had it really been the Renaissance? Crowley was quite surprised to find a range of trees and fences where before had been a little village of abandoned houses, occupied by squatters and pigeon families.

He’d parked the car with Aziraphale in the alley, in the shade, where hopefully curious eyes wouldn’t get suspicious too quickly. This was dangerous territory; they were quite literally in the middle of the city. But he didn’t know where else to turn.

He paced the length of the fence, and stopped when he spotted what seemed like a door, overgrown but open.

He tried the handle. The door swung open. Crowley stepped through and found himself in a quite unlikely place.

He found himself high in the bannisters of a stadium. Not an ancient stadium, which Rome seemed to be filled with in the high thousands, no: a relatively modern stadium, though the seats were sun-bleached and the whole place was overgrown with vegetation. It seemed unlikely that such a sprawling place could be hidden right in the centre of the city.

If this was the place, it looked quite different than it had back then.

Crowley put his hands to his mouth.

“Felix!” He called.

His voice echoed eerily between the stands. He took a few steps forward and stopped when something crinkled under his feet. There was a newspaper that seemed to date from 2011, but it was the candy bar wrappers that caught Crowley’s eye.

This was definitely the place.

He put his hands back to his mouth. “ _FELIX!_ ”

“No need to yell.”

Crowley nearly jumped when the figure appeared just inside the periphery of his field of vision.

The faun was wearing an oversized jersey of the Italian national football team, under which legs covered in dark brown wool poked out. His hair – of the same colour – was wild and curly, and nearly served to hide the two horns curling atop his head. The smile on his face was impish as he stood leaning back against a row of seats with his hoofs propped up against the row before him. He was holding a small lollipop.

“Antonio. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“What’s all this?” Crowley asked, gesturing towards the stadium.

“Do you like it?”

The faun pushed himself off the bench and hopped a little closer to Crowley.

“They built this here in the… oh, it must have been the 1970s. Abandoned it only a couple years ago.”

Crowley looked around again. If anybody had asked him if he believed such a building existed in the middle of Rome, he’d have said no. He still remembered how it had looked before.

“You let them bulldoze your home?” Crowley asked.

“I don’t let humans do anything, demon,” Felix said, a little sharply, “I’m not as awesome as you lot.”

“Right,” Crowley said. He’d forgotten how hard it was to stay on track when talking to the faun.

“Felix, I need to ask you for a favour.”

“Is this going to be like last time?”

Crowley was suddenly assaulted by the memory of bad wine, making out with Leonardo da Vinci, and a disturbing visual of Felix taking a piss in the Tiber. He winced. Damn fauns.

“No. Worse.”

Felix made a face. “I’m not sure I’m interested, then.”

Crowley had to take a deep breath and remind himself that Felix didn’t know what this was about. He hadn’t spent weeks in Heaven, trying to stay out of sight, trying not to breathe too loudly for fear of…

“You ok, AJ?”

Felix was suddenly very close to Crowley’s face without Crowley recalling how he got there. Crowley forced himself back into the present with gritted teeth, though the tug at the back of his mind, the terrible pain like a toothache, persisted. It would remain for the rest of the day.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, then cleared his throat. “Listen, a friend of mine’s in a car in the alley outside. We need a place to lay low. Stay out of sight.”

“Contrary to what you made it out to be, this actually sounds interesting.”

Two quick hop-like steps brought Felix much closer to the door than Crowley could have hoped to get with two steps. The faun turned to look over his shoulder.

“You coming, then?”

* * *

Felix refrained from commenting on Crowley’s ride, for which Crowley was grateful. When he saw Aziraphale in the car, however, he let out a low whistle.

“ _That’s_ your friend?”

He pointed an accusing finger at the angel.

“Are you sure that’s your friend? Cause that looks like a Principality to me, and I don’t know why an angel of the Lord would hang around with the likes of you. No offense.”

Crowley swallowed the first three replies that came to his mind. It wasn’t like that anymore. Aziraphale loved him… or had loved him, anyway. Crowley didn’t know what of that would remain now that Heaven was through with him.

“Would you stop asking stupid questions and just help me get him out of the car and somewhere…” He took three deep breaths because panic welled up like a storm surge. “...well, somewhere safe!”

Felix frowned; but when Crowley opened the passenger door, he lent a helping hand to drag the unconscious angel out of the car and through the door in the fence.

“Down here,” He directed, leading them through a door in the staircase of the stadium that led deeper into the interior of the abandoned site.

Their footsteps echoed on the concrete. With half his mind focussed on carrying Aziraphale while not tripping, Crowley still tried to get as good of an impression of the place as he could. It was huge.

“You live here all by yourself?” He asked, his voice sounding small and lost in the wide hallway.

Felix sounded half distracted answering as he looked over his shoulder to see where he was going.

“Serena stayed with me for a while. Then Maria brought her queer youth group down here for weekly meetings until last year. They come and they go, you know?”

Back in the day, Felix had been hanging out with artists. Crowley knew he’d been here at least since Imperial times, though it was possible that Felix’ claim to the place pre-dated the founding of the city. Crowley had never asked. But wherever Felix was, the outcasts of society gathered. Crowley had never truly appreciated that until now.

They finally reached a door that looked like all the others to Crowley but seemed to signal something to Felix. He kicked it with one hoof, and it swung open, revealing inside what looked to be a doctor’s office, rundown and abandoned as it was.

“The doctor will see you now!” Felix announced in a mocking tone. He had started sweating through his jersey. Crowley, still wearing his usual daywear for London, was beginning to feel the heat himself. He wondered if he could spare some of the Bentley money for a set of more weather-appropriate clothes. Then he wondered if – even with the Bentley money – he could afford any Roman fashion.

They put Aziraphale down on an examination table. Crowley tried not to look at him, but he found his gaze drawn to the unconscious figure, nevertheless.

He looked so damn peaceful. This would all be easier if he didn’t look so damn peaceful. His eyes were closed, his hair a little mussed, his mouth relaxed. Only the fact that he was still wearing his street clothes gave away that something was out of place.

“Are you going to tell me how you two met?” Felix asked. Crowley was astounded by the fact that the unconscious figure of Aziraphale didn’t seem to bother the faun. He was simply rifling through the closets for something useful. Occasionally, he tossed out an empty box.

“The Garden of Eden,” Crowley said, wishing he couldn’t recall events in such torturing clarity. If only he had the malleable memory of humans. His brain would have shut down to deal with the trauma by now.

Felix looked over his shoulder, pausing his search for a second. “That’s a real place?”

“It was,” Crowley said with a sigh.

“That’s fucked up,” Felix decided, “I always figured the Catholic Church made that one up.”

“You really don’t know much about religion, do you,” Crowley stated sarcastically.

“Know enough about my religion,” Felix replied, then called: “Aha!”

He whirled around, triumphantly holding out a plastic bag with a clear liquid inside.

“What’s that?” Crowley asked.

“Intravenous drip. This place was built for the Olympics, you know. All the medical facilities are state of the art – for the seventies, anyway.”

With the infusion bag, Felix also produced a needle and a tube. Crowley suppressed the urge to get between him and Aziraphale.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” He said instead, proud of how level his voice was.

Felix got that look again, the same frown he’d worn by the car.

“You’re really going to have to tell me what’s going on here.”

Crowley didn’t let himself be distracted. “He’s an angel. He doesn’t need to be drip-fed.”

“How many miracles do you think he’s going to be performing in this state?” Felix asked, pointing at the unconscious angel on the examination table. “The way I see it, your corporations only don’t need food because you bastards can’t be bothered to learn how human bodies actually work, so you just fuck with reality a little bit. Gives me the creeps, it does, to see how the literal fabric of the universe warps around you lot. But this guy? He’s out cold. Comatose. There’s no miracles happening here.”

“You can _see_ miracles?” Crowley asked. He was so surprised that he simply let Felix pull a metal stand for the IV next to Aziraphale.

“How do you think I survived so long? This place has been crawling with angels and demons ever since Constantine decided he was Christian. Well, not literally crawling. But there’s still too many of you here for my liking.”

“And mine,” Crowley agreed, trying to think of all the people he passed and whether or not they had been angels – or demons – in disguise.

He let Felix put an IV on Aziraphale, double-checking the needle himself to make sure it was all in order. Then he followed Felix – reluctantly – to a nearby room.

The faun appeared to have robbed a second-hand furniture store for his living room. All the sofas were velvety-plush, in obscene purples and greens. The walls were covered over and over with murals depicting nature scenes of the most ostentatious kind – lush trees, green forests, colourful flowers, the bluest sky. The paintings were so vivid as to appear alive. On a shelf next to the painting of a large tree, Felix had hung a flat-screen TV. Speakers hovered in the corners of the walls.

“Do you have any good Spotify playlists?” Felix asked.

“Any what?”

“Ah, nevermind.” Felix went to a little fridge in the far corner of the room and pulled out a canned gin and tonic. “You want one?”

Crowley first shook his head, then changed his mind. “Sure.”

* * *

“Oh, I haven’t been to a good Bacchanalia in _ages_ ,” Crowley said. The gin had left the nicest aftertaste of herbs in his mouth, though it was probably the cheapest he had ever had. He had stopped compulsively checking on Aziraphale in the other room every five minutes, willing himself to sit still until the stillness bled over into his mood. The gin had helped a lot.

“I do raves now,” Felix said, “They _love_ this place.”

Crowley didn’t feel like admitting he had no idea what a rave was.

There was music playing in the background. Crowley reached for another can of gin and tonic. Felix was fiddling with the controls of the stereo, then unlocked his phone to change the song. The can in Crowley’s hand opened with a satisfying hiss.

“What I want to know,” Felix said, putting his phone away and leaning forward, “is this: Why did you have to come to me for help? You guys are practically Gods in your own right down here – heresy intended. And yet you need my help to drag this guy out of the car?”

Crowley felt his teeth grind against each other and fought to relax his jaw muscles. He didn’t want to think about –

 _The brightness. The brightness of it all. He had longed for his sunglasses the entire time he’d been up there. The brightness made his vision go fuzzy at the edges, but it had felt like his mind was going fuzzy as well. He’d curled up in corners, repeating Aziraphale’s name and his own over and over again, afraid to sleep, afraid that when he woke, he’d have forgotten_ –

“Oh shit, you just went somewhere.”

Felix was snapping fingers in front of Crowley’s face.

“Hey, stay with me.”

The music bled back into Crowley’s mind slowly. The room came back, all clashing colours and plant paintings. He was breathing heavily.

“I need to check on him,” Crowley said and stood.

His legs were a little unsteady under him, but he made it work. Felix followed close behind, not exactly hovering but staying nearby nonetheless, mastering the art of being both present and unseen. Crowley pointedly avoided looking at Felix’s face, afraid of the concern he was sure to find there. He was _fine_.

Aziraphale was still on the examination table, safe and sound. The IV drip was still running, and though Crowley wanted to convince himself it was just his imagination, it looked like some colour had come back into Aziraphale’s cheeks. Maybe Felix had been right about the IV.

“They’re following me,” Crowley said, still looking at Aziraphale. “Not sure how, but they can trace my miracles. So whenever I perform one, they’re on my ass and ready to kill me. And I wouldn’t mind that, they can kill me, but they can’t have him.”

“They?” Felix asked, his voice quiet.

Crowley focussed on his breathing. In, then out, then in again. It was easy, if you knew how.

“Heaven,” he said.

Felix said nothing for a while. Then –

“Who is he to you, then?”

Crowley opened his mouth. He looked at Aziraphale. Nothing came out. He closed it again.

Aziraphale… Aziraphale is… Aziraphale was…

“He’s my friend,” Crowley said, his throat impossibly dry.

Felix put a careful hand on Crowley’s shoulder. He had to reach up – he was a head smaller than Crowley even when he didn’t slouch.

He gently steered Crowley back into the other room and sat him down on the couch. Crowley was half hoping for another gin and tonic, but none was offered to him. Then he remembered the freshly opened can on the table in front of him. He reached for it, but before his hand caught it, Felix had whisked it away.

“That’s quite enough of that.”

Instead, he put a full glass of water in front of Crowley. Crowley saw no bottle or faucet that could have conceivably produced it. When he’d emptied it, Felix took it and handed it back a second later with more water. He watched Crowley drink that, too, then got up and pointed him to one of the couches.

“You’ll sleep here tonight. I’ll watch your angel.”

Crowley wanted to say something about not needing sleep (not wanting sleep, but he wasn’t practised in being honest with himself), but Felix simply stood. “Don’t make me get out my flute.”

Crowley acquiesced. It was easier, he told himself.

* * *

“The miracles are going to be your biggest problem.”

Crowley only really woke up when a big mug of coffee was plopped down in front of him. Going by the mug, it had been acquired at a Starbucks, though how exactly Felix inconspicuously entered a Starbucks was beyond Crowley’s sleep-addled brain. Plus, there was the splitting headache.

Apparently, the water hadn’t helped.

He sat up slowly and groaned as he did. His jaw ached – he must have been grinding his teeth in his sleep.

Felix was wearing a fresh Italian football jersey, though this one seemed to be of a different design. Crowley was a man who could appreciate commitment to an aesthetic – though the faun had looked much better back in the day, in Crowley’s humble opinion.

“What?” He finally asked, after he’d taken three big gulps of the coffee.

“The miracles are going to be the problem. You’re not accustomed to living without them. Eventually you’ll slip.”

Felix was reaching into his bag and producing baked goods by the dozen. Crowley didn’t like admitting it, but they smelled delicious. Aziraphale would have loved these.

Aziraphale.

Crowley forced himself to sit still. Felix was already concerned. He didn’t want to appear unhinged in front of the faun, though his insides suddenly burned with the fear. What if Aziraphale – But surely Felix would have told him if –

“I agree,” He said.

Felix mustered him critically.

“What’s your long-term plan here, AJ?”

“I haven’t really had time to think about it,” Crowley admitted between bites of pastry and gulps of coffee. He hadn’t realised how hungry he had been. Was eating something he was going to have to remember now?

“Cause we can get your boy to safety, never you worry,” Felix said, “Heaven will never find him where I can put people. But I have a feeling that’s not what you want.”

Crowley tried to imagine it. He’d put Aziraphale’s safety first, always. But could he live, having to trust that Aziraphale was safe but never _knowing_? Crowley didn’t do well with blind faith. History had shown that.

“I…”

“A friend, you said, yes?” Felix eyed him knowingly. “I know the kind of friendship you’re talking about, buddy.”

Crowley hung his head.

“The demon and the Principality,” Felix said, “I never would have thought.”

“All the poems were about him,” Crowley said, “Remember those? I wrote them on the table of that little tavern we went to. You copied them out.”

Had he looked up, he would have seen a look of incredible tenderness on the faun’s face.

“Yeah, I remember,” Felix said.

Crowley balled his hands into fists. It was unfair. They’d only gotten a couple of decades. That was nothing compared to the millennia they’d been kept apart. He was going to find God, and he was going to have words with Her again.

It was so unfair.

“I know a guy,” Felix said, “I can’t help you, but he might be able to.”

“What kind of a guy is this?” Crowley asked doubtfully.

“Just another friendly soul with an open door,” Felix said. “I think at the moment you’re best served by not staying in one place for too long.”

Crowley had to agree with him.

“One day you’ll have to tell me the whole story, Antonio,” Felix said, “You know where you can find me. I’ll be right here.”

* * *

**A CONVERSATION IN HEAVEN – ROUGHLY AT THE SAME TIME – THAT CROWLEY IS NOT PRIVY TO.**

“Have you seen him recently?”

Uriel’s voice was hushed, like she feared the sound of it reverberating through the vast hallways of Heaven.

“I _have_ ,” Michael replied, voice pressed, and words forced out despite the fear of speaking them. In her book, they had all become too _human_ since the world didn’t end. Gone was the harmony, this all-encompassing vibrating note that went on and on without dissonance, replaced by mouths and debate and teeth and _dissent_.

“He’s gone crazy!” Uriel said. She punctuated her words with a flourish of hands. The hands were new as well. “All this talk of war will come to no good end. I hear he’s begun mobilising again. For _what_?”

Michael didn’t want to hear this. Michael didn’t want to hear a great many things. Everything since the almost-apocalypse reminded her too much of the _before_. Before the Earth. Before Hell. Before the Rebellion, back when Lucifer was nothing more than a badly tuned instrument in Heaven’s orchestra.

Michael had never read Tolkien’s Silmarillion.

“It’s not our place to question Gabriel on military matters. That’s not our department.”

Michael _liked_ her job. Except for the one time with Lucifer, she’d never had to do anything unpleasant like lead troops or conduct a battle. She took care of the domestic policy of Heaven, and that was that.

Uriel scoffed.

“Maybe that was how things went _before_. This new order…” She pursed her lips. “I don’t think we have roles like that anymore.”

“Careful, Uriel,” Michael warned, “That sounded almost like a question.”

Uriel’s eyes said _to hell with questions_.

“You used to ask me about readings of the Divine Plan, remember?”

Michael was relieved Uriel didn’t press the matter. True, Gabriel was behaving a little… erratic, but he stayed within his jurisdiction, so Michael could safely ignore it.

“When did we stop?” Michael mused.

“1054 AD?” Uriel suggested.

“No, it must have been before that. You never made it to the Catholic list of archangels, after all.”

“Tasteful, Michael,” Uriel said.

Sarcasm. They didn’t have sarcasm before.

Uriel leaned against the wall of the hallway. Michael thought she’d look good with a cigarette between her fingers like that – a little carefree, a little rebellious. She wondered if Uriel had been meeting with Aziraphale.

“I’m saying,” Uriel sighed, “you went wrong when you stopped asking me.”

* * *

**ROME, ITALY, DAY THREE ON THE ROAD.**

Load Aziraphale into the car, pack up provisions, get back on the road. Crowley was beginning to appreciate the driving. It took his mind off things.

He drove back North. Eventually, Italy became Austria and he remembered to eat something – a croissant and black coffee at a rest stop café. Then he bought himself a two-litre bottle of water, because he suddenly felt parched.

Life without miracles was so _complicated_.

He drove on.

He took his second break on a gravel parking lot nestled against a hillside. He immediately liked the solidity of the rock at his back; the wide view of the surrounding landscape. It felt like a fortress.

He got out of the car and stretched. The air was cool – pleasant after the stifling smell of the car. Below the parking lot, in the distance, the lights of a few small towns twinkled in the darkness. A gust of wind tore right through Crowley and he shivered.

Despite the rapidly cooling air, he chose to open the passenger door of the car for a while. The fresh air might do Aziraphale some good.

He wondered when he should begin to worry about the lack of response from the angel. Was this the third day, or the fourth back on Earth? Crowley couldn’t quite be sure, the days and nights bled into each other when panic like a frenzy was the only emotion he could feel for quite a while. When should he begin to worry about Aziraphale’s unresponsiveness? What if the angel never woke up again?

Crowley forbade himself those thoughts. He had to. He wouldn’t be able to keep driving if he didn’t.

Eventually, he would have to sleep, but not just yet.

He settled down next to the car, leaning against a cooling tire, and breathed in the air. He so rarely got out of London these days, he’d almost forgotten what the countryside smelled like – rich and sweet and overpowering. Out here he never could begrudge a human for sacrificing to nature as God.

His eyes kept drifting shut. The cold wind did its part in exhausting him, making him shiver, but he welcomed it. The sensations – unpleasant as they were – anchored him in the moment, made him feel alive.

A cough sounded from the car behind him. Crowley scrambled to his feet.

He was next to Aziraphale in a second, before the angel even really had time to regain consciousness. His eyes blinked slowly a couple times, confused, before he shot up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Crowley!” He exclaimed. It wasn’t the tone of loving relief that Crowley had hoped for, but it was a sign of life. That was good enough for now.

“I’m right here,” Crowley said, then put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm. He gave the angel a moment to slowly take in his surroundings. Aziraphale was breathing heavily, his hands clenching and unclenching fists in his lap. Crowley found himself suddenly thankful for having spent six thousand years of waiting for Aziraphale. Otherwise, he didn’t think he could have stayed crouched before Aziraphale for so long, not as the man who had taken Aziraphale to bed and felt the blessing of his love.

“This isn’t Heaven,” Aziraphale said eventually.

“No, this is Hungary,” Crowley answered.

Aziraphale slumped back in his seat. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“How are you feeling?” He asked carefully.

“Tired,” Aziraphale mumbled. Crowley watched his eyes drift shut again and desperately wanted to shake him, keep him there with him, keep him awake. Again, the self-control he exercised should have earned him a commendation from God-knows-who.

Aziraphale’s breathing slowed again. Eventually, Crowley had to admit that the angel had sunk back into whatever sleep had claimed him since their escape from Heaven.

* * *

**HEAVEN, SIXTEEN DAYS PRIOR.**

It was too easy, slipping back into Heaven.

Crowley had suspected as much after the lack of alarm bells when he’d entered Heaven in Aziraphale’s body, but it still surprised him that a simple glamour sufficed. Why hadn’t Hell tried this before? Because they were all bloody stupid, that was why. Not an ounce of creativity between the whole lot of them.

Crowley took the escalator up. There were no pearly gates, and if Saint Peter worked the front desk, he must have taken the day off. Crowley only walked down long hallways, none of them even vaguely familiar, trying for confidence.

This was a stupid idea.

This was a stupid idea, but it was the only idea Crowley had. If there was even a chance that Aziraphale was –

He’d debated making his angelic appearance as unlike himself as possible. In the end, he’d decided against it, for one very practical reason: He wanted Aziraphale to be able to recognise him. So he’d opted for a pantsuit, emphasising a slim waist. His hair was a shock of white, the gold speckles running down the side of his neck only reminiscent of scales to the initiated observer. His yellow eyes had become gold, slitted pupils abandoned in favour of inconspicuous round ones. Other than that, his face and form were the same.

Nobody batted an eye at him in the hallway.

Internally, Crowley mocked the lax security. They should be able to sense him. Was it negligence or arrogance that made them blind to him? Either way, Crowley should probably be thankful.

The first day, he simply observed.

He hung out in hallways with other angels, listened to their talk, nodded thoughtfully and smiled at the right times. Heaven was one long conversation at the office’s only coffee machine.

The first night, when the omnipresent white light dimmed and was replaced by glimmering starlight and stunning midnight darkness, Crowley retreated into a corner. He slept fitfully and woke the next morning with the nagging sensation that he’d forgotten something.

The second day, he spent much like the first.

The third day, he heard the voice for the first time.

_Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum._

It was multiple voices, leading a low chant in perfect time, close to his ear.

He whirled around. Nobody was there.

The angel he had been talking with gave him an inquisitive look but chose to say nothing.

_Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra._

When the voice came again, Crowley flinched. It sounded like something had spoken directly into his ear, and very loudly at that. Only there was nobody there.

What was he doing here? He looked around, and everything seemed new and unfamiliar. He was in Heaven. Something seemed wrong about that.

He excused himself from the conversation with some hastily mumbled words and ducked into a smaller nearby hallway.

He was Crowley. He was here to rescue Aziraphale, his angel, who had been taken from him by Heaven for a purpose Crowley had not yet been able to discern. How could he have forgotten that?

Of course, it got worse.

Crowley learned to recognise the onslaughts of the Heavenly Chorus when they came, but that didn’t make it any easier on him. He had been an angel once. Apparently, there was a part of him that was still very willing to be an angel, given the opportunity.

He threw up a couple of times after the particularly bad episodes. He started shaking, a tremor in his hands that extended to his full body at night. He was afraid of forgetting his own name, afraid of forgetting Aziraphale’s and leaving Aziraphale here to a fate that, he could only imagine, was far worse than his.

* * *

A couple of miles short of the Romanian border, Aziraphale regained consciousness again for a while.

“Whose car is this?” He asked.

“Someone else’s,” Crowley forced out between gritted teeth.

* * *

**ROMANIA, DAY THREE ON THE ROAD.**

They were so close. So close, but Crowley couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He’d been driving for eighteen hours, only taking short breaks.

When Aziraphale managed to stay conscious for more than three seconds at a time, Crowley decided to check them into a pension. It had started raining at about four in the afternoon, and the smell of wet earth all around them was so heavy that Crowley could taste it on his tongue. He did flick his tongue out when he got out of the car, forked and too long. But he tasted neither demonic nor ethereal presence in the air, just the old forest and tired old wood of the farmhouse that had been converted into a hotel.

The woman behind the desk – Crowley would put her at fifty, fifty-five at the most – cast a disapproving look at Crowley and his sunglasses, and she didn’t much care for the fact that Crowley asked for a double room instead of two singles, either. Her carefully manicured, cherry-red fingernails trailed through the book on her desk with a slow precision, though Crowley didn’t doubt she knew exactly the number of people in her establishment and the rooms she’d booked them into. Going by the number of cars outside, it couldn’t be that many.

After two minutes in which she silently communicated her disapproval and Crowley silently didn’t care, she made a small note, named her price upfront and handed Crowley the keys after he’d paid with some of the cash from the envelope. Crowley gave her his most disingenuous smile.

Aziraphale was quiet. Crowley counted it as a win that he’d managed to stay upright for this long. He still looked too pale for Crowley’s liking.

Aziraphale was quiet, even as Crowley saw them to their room, and he just sat on the bed as Crowley went back down to the car for their belongings, his hands folded neatly in his lap and his back ramrod straight. Crowley could only look at him for so long before the urge to scream overcame him.

Aziraphale had completely shut down. There was a wall where Crowley’s angel had once been.

And Crowley was angry.

The hotel offered dinner, a kind of dumpling with mystery filling. Crowley filled up two heaping plates and brought them up to the room himself because he didn’t want to deal with the woman from earlier. There was cake, too, and struck by a sudden moment of inspiration, Crowley took a slice for Aziraphale.

Back in their room, he arranged the plates on a small table, then gently sat down Aziraphale in front of his plate.

“Eat,” He ordered.

Aziraphale picked up the fork obediently, and began eating – methodically, neatly, robotically. There was no sign of enjoyment.

Crowley’s mouth felt dry. He tried a couple of bites of his own food, but he couldn’t stomach it. Every time he so much as caught sight of Aziraphale’s precise, mechanical movements out of the corner of his eye, nausea overcame him, and he had to set down his fork again. When Aziraphale was finished, Crowley pushed his plate aside as well.

“I brought you dessert.”

Just three weeks ago, Aziraphale would have beamed at him. Aziraphale would have told him about the precise history and preparation of this specific cake. He would have raved about the technique behind the layering, tasted the glacé cherry on top first, with a bit of a coy smile.

Tonight, Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, thank you. I’m quite full.”

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale would eat if he ordered him to. It was a horrible thought, and he regretted it as soon as it crossed his mind. He only wanted so desperately for things to feel normal again. That he could picture it so clearly worsened the feeling that he’d been denied something.

He used to be cruel, he thought. He used to take what he wanted. Now he could only stare at Aziraphale – helpless, powerless – and wonder how he’d begin a conversation he had no training for.

Crowley stood, and Aziraphale stood, too. While Crowley put the plates away, Aziraphale went to the bed, pulled off his jacket and put it over the chair, then went to lie down on top of the covers and curled up on his side. Crowley watched him – helpless, powerless – and felt the anger surge up once more. They had taken his angel.

He sat down on his own bed and tried to tell himself that the longer he waited the worse it would get. Rain pattered steadily against the windows. If he pressed his hand against the window now, it would feel pleasantly cool, a respite from the late summer heat. It was odd, how he was cataloguing sensations now that this body, this moment, this time was all he had. He had thought he’d feel trapped.

Aziraphale didn’t move.

Crowley went over to check if he’d fallen asleep again, but to his surprise, Aziraphale’s eyes were open. He didn’t react to Crowley moving into his field of vision.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s hand hovered over Aziraphale’s form for a second. Could he reach out? He greeted the fear in his gut, standing on the precipice of rejection, like an old friend. The phonograph-fear, repeating at the end of a record, of all the things that had gone wrong and could still do so.

It was hard for someone who believed in nothing to take a leap of faith.

He reached out, gently touching Aziraphale’s forearm.

“How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale looked at him, then. His eyes – blue, so very blue, Crowley had always been fascinated by how something could be so blue, had, in fact, written sonnets about this particular shade of blue – were filled with unspoken horror. Whatever it was, Aziraphale was alone with it, and it was eating him from the inside out.

“Please, Crowley.”

“It might help if you talked to me, you know.”

It broke Crowley to see him suffer. He’d done this to Aziraphale. He hadn’t come for him soon enough. He had wasted his time drinking, despairing, instead of thinking of ways to save his angel.

“I really just want to sleep.”

Crowley refrained from shouting at him. Crowley refrained from seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him until he came up with some other reaction than this absolutely frightening apathy. Instead, he nodded patiently.

“I understand.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale mumbled.

That night, Crowley woke up and felt phantom hands over his mouth, phantom hands on his arms holding him down. He scrambled up in a mind-numbing panic, smashing his head against the headboard, his heart beating painfully.

Aziraphale was sleeping peacefully on the bed next to him. Slowly, Crowley’s heart rate normalised. Still, he didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

**HEAVEN, SIX DAYS PRIOR.**

It took him ten days.

Ten days, then dropping Aziraphale’s name or occupation in conversation finally paid off.

“The Principality?” The angel said, “You mean the Prodigy?”

Crowley frowned, but one memorable decade as a member of an improv theatre group had taught him quick thinking. That, and looking after Warlock for seven years.

“Yes, of course. Where do they keep him?” He looked at his watch, hoping to seem pressed for time. “I’m supposed to deliver a report.”

The angel pointed out the directions. Crowley thanked him, then excused himself. He tried to move quickly without drawing attention. The last thing he needed now was another onslaught of the Heavenly Chorus that would make him forget the directions. The need to get to Aziraphale was burning in his blood.

He recognised the place once he saw it, though it didn’t much look like a prison. There was just a door like any other, only set apart by the fact that an angel was standing in front of it. Normally, there wasn’t much occasion for guarding things in Heaven.

The angel mustered Crowley. Their entire body was covered in gold speckles in the form of eyes. Crowley flinched a little when he saw some of them blinking.

“Purpose of your visit?”

Crowley felt his world tilt sideways.

It had been over six millennia since he’d last been subject to a direct order from a member of the Host. He’d forgotten. This was nothing compared to the blasted Chorus.

The thing about harmony was that it was rarely ever peaceful, in Crowley’s opinion. To him, it had always felt like the epitome of violence, the erasure of dissonance until nothing but the ringing of a clear, high note remained, no matter the cost in individual views. Crowley had always felt like a string out of tune, forced under more tension to produce a note that was satisfying to the Host.

Heaven was not a place for those who dissented.

He forced himself back into his own mind. Luckily, ten days expecting the Chorus to come for him at the worst times had somewhat prepared him.

“I have a report,” Crowley said.

The eyes blinked again. Crowley very nearly found himself praying that the guard was not expecting somebody to break _into_ Aziraphale’s prison, that he was just here to keep Aziraphale from getting _out_ . Crowley didn’t know enough about why they’d taken Aziraphale to make up a convincing story for why he needed to get to him, besides the obvious _he’s mine, you bastards_.

“You may pass,” The guard said.

Crowley tried not to look relieved.

The guard opened the door and Crowley stepped through, finding himself in another hallway. A short walk led him to a door at the end of it that opened to a wider room, oval, shaped a little like an arena.

In the middle stood Aziraphale, swinging a flaming sword.

He was still a little ways away, but Crowley would have recognised that head of fluffy cloud-like hair anywhere. He could hear Aziraphale talking, yet couldn’t quite make out the words.

Crowley scanned the room. When he was satisfied that nobody was there, Crowley began making his way towards Aziraphale.

Getting closer, he could make out training dummies around Aziraphale. He was attacking one of them, bringing his sword down to cleave it in two, then whirling around to strike another around the midsection. And now Crowley could hear him speak.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, and the despair in his voice made bile rise up in Crowley’s throat, “Please… let me stop… I can’t… do this… anymore…”

He sounded tired. No, he sounded utterly exhausted. There were streaks of tears running down his cheeks, which were mottled red from exercise. His face was contorted from the pain screaming through his muscles. And yet, as he begged, he strode forward and struck another one of the training dummies, crying out in pain.

Crowley’s vision went red.

For a second, he saw nothing but hellfire. When he came to, the arena around him had been charred and burned, with the notable exception of Aziraphale in front of him, who had blessedly stopped moving. Crowley realised he had assumed his true demonic form, horns and all, when the call went up.

It was pitched high, a beautiful sound for an alarm. Announcing to all that a demon had entered Heaven.

Crowley was out of time.

“Aziraphale, it’s me,” He said, his voice the rasping sound of gravel grinding on gravel. Aziraphale didn’t respond, just stood there – arms slack, eyes closed and tears still running down his cheeks. Crowley grabbed him, hoisted him over his shoulder, then made for the nearest exit.

The guard pulled out a sword when Crowley burst forth from the doors, scent of hellfire and sulphur clinging to him, but he finished them off with a fireball to the chest. The anger in his blood could have eviscerated a whole army of angels right now, or so he felt. He broke out into a sprint.

Lucky for the angels he met in the corridors, most of them were too stunned to try to stop him.

They were waiting for him at the stairway, of course.

Crowley considered his options, but his critical thinking skills didn’t extend further than smashing whoever had done this to Aziraphale. He was going to go through them. If they wanted to burn, all the more fun for him.

He cradled Aziraphale into his chest as best he could and took a running start. The charge of hellfire coming towards them actually sent some of the angels jumping to the side, but others held steady. Crowley’s blood sang as he felt their essences burn.

One leap brought him down half of the stairs. As his legs hit the escalator, he felt a searing pain in his back, just above his kidneys – but then the image of Heaven vanished, and London appeared.

They had made it. Now, for the aftermath.

* * *

**ROMANIA, DAY 4 ON THE ROAD.**

The thing that got Crowley most about driving through Europe was how everything looked similar, but then every country also just looked different enough to make him doubt his perception.

They’d gotten back on the road bright and early, after another encounter with the unpleasant lady at the front desk. Nevertheless, Crowley felt confident in a way that he hadn’t the last couple of days. He couldn’t tell if it was the good night’s sleep or the fact that Aziraphale was no longer drooling on himself in the passenger seat.

They’d exchanged a few words this morning. These had been remarkable mostly for their strained politeness – Crowley had forgotten what it felt like to be kept at a distance by Aziraphale, but now he remembered with vicious clarity.

Outside the car, Romania flew past them, all tree-covered hills, dry landscapes and open, blue sky. Crowley still didn’t like the open sky.

Two hours into their journey – roughly halfway to the church that Felix had named as their next destination – Crowley stopped them and made Aziraphale drink some water. Going by how quickly Aziraphale gulped it down, he still wasn’t up to performing miracles. Crowley wished for Felix’s second sight.

“Better?” He asked as he took the bottle back from Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you.”

They drove on.

Crowley was frowning at some noises the Ford was making when Aziraphale suddenly spoke up.

“I suppose I should say thank you,” He said.

“No need,” Crowley said impulsively, because he had made a life around getting Aziraphale out of tight spots, and if Aziraphale thought for one second that Crowley was going to leave him to Heaven, he was sorely mistaken. Well –

No. That wasn’t Crowley’s fault. He hadn’t known, couldn’t have known, that Aziraphale was still alive.

“You know, I know you don’t want to talk,” Crowley said. “But if you want to, I’m here.”

Aziraphale nodded in that curt, polite way of his that said thank you, but no thank you. The rage Crowley felt fanned deep in his stomach was misdirected at Aziraphale, yet he still couldn’t help it. Aziraphale had lived through something traumatic. Crowley shouldn’t expect things to go back to the way they had been before.

It was just so unfair.

“I’m not keeping you here, you know,” Crowley said impulsively.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale looking at him. Too bad their situation forced him to keep his eyes on the road.

“I wasn’t saying you were,” Aziraphale said. He sounded ever-so-patient, and it galled Crowley, who was used to an Aziraphale who was contrarian and argumentative to a fault. What wouldn’t he have done for one clear sign of disagreement from Aziraphale.

“It’s just that…”

He couldn’t possibly say that. Oh, but he was going to, wasn’t he?

“You don’t seem particularly happy to be out of Heaven.”

He used the road as an excuse to himself to not have to look at Aziraphale. The silence brewing in the passenger seat was ominous.

“Forget about it,” Crowley said eventually.

They’d been so much further. He remembered kissing Aziraphale. He remembered the relief of no longer longing but having, and he remembered the joy in realising his feelings were returned. Now they were back to square one, but Crowley seemed to be the only one who suffered.

“I don’t know how you could say such a thing, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

It was the little choking sound that did it for Crowley. He glanced over briefly, and Aziraphale’s gaze was cast down at his hands. He was pale, and maybe it was Crowley’s imagination, but he seemed even paler than just seconds before.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, because nothing else would do.

Again, Aziraphale said nothing for a long while.

Then –

“I have suffered…”

He choked again.

“Then talk to me, a–“

The pet name would have sounded wrong. Presumptuous.

“Aziraphale.”

The Ford made that noise again, and suddenly Crowley felt something bucking. _Shit_. Before the engine could blow up or one of the wheels fall off or whatever the problem of this damn car was that Crowley hadn’t been able to figure out, he waved his hand – and realised too late what he had done.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Aziraphale still looked caught up in their previous conversation and didn’t understand Crowley’s sudden panic. Before Crowley had time to explain himself, however, a beam of white light hit the road before them. Crowley just managed to swerve. Luckily, there were few other cars on the road, or this would have gotten much uglier much faster.

It was still about to get very, very ugly.

“What was that?” Aziraphale yelled, and in the same breath answered his question, “That was an angel!”

“Yeah…” Crowley answered between pressed lips. He couldn’t believe how _stupid_ he’d been.

Felix had been right. Sooner or later, it was inevitable that he would slip. He’d just proven that himself.

A second beam of light hit the road before them. This time, Crowley was prepared and swerved better. In the rear-view mirror, he could see the suit-clad figures of tan-coloured angels get up from their three-point landing and charge after the car with supernatural speed.

 _Shit_.

“Crowley, _do something!_ ” Aziraphale shouted.

“I can’t!” Crowley yelled back, accelerating the Ford past what he thought advisable for a car of this age.

A third beam of light, this one much closer. Crowley pitied the Romanian road maintenance department. Divine intervention would have been the last reason on his list for crumbling infrastructure in Eastern Europe. He grazed the beam before managing to avoid it, and the entire car shook.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

Aziraphale’s voice was incredulous, high-pitched and panicked. Crowley didn’t blame him, but – “This really isn’t the place to explain!”

Two beams shot down in front of him. If he played it right… yes. The Ford shot through the gap between them, only losing one of its rearview mirrors in the process.

“They’re gaining on us!”

Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed on the rearview mirror, where now five angels were rapidly approaching the car, despite the speed Crowley kept them at. Crowley wasn’t sure what the angels were going to do with them once they caught up, but he wasn’t keen on finding out.

Aziraphale snapped. The road and the angels around them vanished, and were replaced by maize stalks.

It took a few minutes of heavy breathing and listening for Crowley to convince himself that the angels weren’t following them. Only then did he switch off the engine and turn to Aziraphale.

The angel was shaking in the passenger seat.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, a stupid question he couldn’t help but ask again and again.

Aziraphale – pale, tight-lipped – raised a finger and whispered: “A minute, please.”

A minute later, he looked no less pale but seemed to have composed himself somewhat.

“That was unpleasant.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Crowley hovered but refrained from touching. He was half bent out of the driver’s seat leaning over Aziraphale, studying his face and body intently for any sign of an imminent collapse. Not that he could do anything when the collapse came.

“It appears I am still somewhat weakened,” Aziraphale said.

“Felix mentioned something along those lines,” Crowley confirmed.

“Who’s Felix?” Aziraphale asked, then waved it off, “Forget about that. What’s going on?”

Crowley sighed. He’d hoped to spare Aziraphale the gruesome details of their specific situation until he came up with a solution. It had seemed tantalisingly close, too – Felix had seemed sure that his contact could at least come up with something. But he was not very good at denying Aziraphale anything.

“I got you out of Heaven,” He started.

Aziraphale nodded. “I remember that. Dimly.”

Crowley winced at the memory of Aziraphale with the sword in hand, how pathetic his voice had sounded. He had hoped, for Aziraphale’s sake, that his recollection would show mercy at least one time.

“But… something hit me. I didn’t know what it was. I got us back to London, back to the apartment, and wanted to find out what was wrong with you. But as soon as I touched my magic, there’s a whole special forces unit of angels on my ass. I could barely get you in the car to get us out. They can track my miracles.”

Aziraphale was balling his hands into fists, then unclenching them compulsively. Crowley felt a sting of regret at burdening him with all this.

“I’m going to find a solution, angel, I promise. This is all just temporary. You’ll go back to being normal and I’ll get Heaven off my ass and we’ll…”

He trailed off. He didn’t want to assume.

Aziraphale gave him a weak, apologetic smile. He knew. Crowley longed for him to say that they’d be okay.

Aziraphale didn’t.

“I think I’m going to go back to sleep,” He said instead. Crowley nodded, already wishing he had never brought any of this up.

* * *

**A DIFFERENT KIND OF DIFFICULT REVELATION, SEVERAL STORIES UP.**

“Michael. Hey, psst. Michael!”

Michael tried to ignore the insistent voice coming from the side-hallway where Uriel was currently trying to be inconspicuous.

“ _Michael_.”

Her tone was getting more insistent by the minute. Michael sighed.

“What _is_ it?”

“I went by Gabriel’s lot.”

“This again? Really?”

Michael crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Since the last time she had spoken with Uriel, she had practised a bit in this body.

“Yes, this again.”

Uriel refused to step out of the hallway or raise her voice, so Michael was forced to step closer. She hated how _conspiratorial_ they looked. She hated the implication that there was a need for conspiracy.

“He really is mobilizing. I saw it. And something else, too.”

Uriel cast a suspicious look around for any bystanders, though the halls were absolutely empty.

“I heard he had Aziraphale kidnapped.”

“That’s impossible,” Michael said. Gabriel wouldn’t – He couldn’t even – He wouldn’t dare. Kidnap Aziraphale? Audacious.”

“Maybe so. But I hear he had specific reasons.”

Uriel seemed to be enjoying this. There was a look of satisfaction on her face, and Michael couldn’t tell if it was the thrill of something forbidden or the joy of being right.

“What reasons would that be? What reasons could he possibly have to do that?”

“Remember when I said you went wrong when you stopped asking me?” Uriel said. Only a non-sequitur on the surface. Michael could feel the threads of this conversation moving. They were ready to entangle.

Michael didn’t respond. Not verbally, anyway.

“I hear he’s looking to restart the whole thing. Try it again. Apocalypse 2.0.”

“Slander,” Michael decided.

“I hear,” Uriel continued, heedless of Michael’s interjection, “that’s he’s especially excited to see how you do against Lucifer in your rematch.”

Michael felt her stomach drop. It was curious, she’d heard humans use the expression, but she’d never thought the description would be quite so _apt_.

“He wouldn’t.”

“You were up for it the first time. Back when we thought the whole thing was coming to an end.” Uriel looked Michael up and down. “Has something changed?”

“I don’t like your tone,” Michael said. “You don’t have to sound so damn smug about it.”

The curse simply slipped out, but it brought a wide grin to Uriel’s face. Smug indeed.

She’d do it, of course. Fight Lucifer. Hah. She’d done it once, and the whole family had cheered her on, and Lucifer had been cast out and she’d slammed the door behind him and walked away with her back straight and her head held high and everybody assuming her face was covered in sweat, not tears.

It wasn’t easy, killing your brother. It was even harder locking him away forever.

“You’re making this up,” Michael decided. It was her last hope. The one straw. She grasped it with all her might.

Uriel’s grin disappeared like someone had flipped a switch. She stood, palms upturned, arms outstretched. “Michael, I would never. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

Michael searched her face desperately. This was a joke among siblings. None of them would think to restart the end times. They’d only just settled in for the long haul again – right?

Uriel must have caught some of that on her face. She put a gentle hand to Michael’s arm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t believe me before. It felt good to be right.”

Then, leaning in even closer, she said sympathetically. “I know how much it scares you.”

Discord, Michael thought. That’s how it had all started, the first time around. She had a feeling this time wasn’t going to go much better.

* * *

**CLUJ-NAPOCA, ROMANIA, DAY 4 ON THE ROAD**

Crowley saw the church long before he reached it.

The city centre was bustling. Shops lined the long road through town, though Crowley could read none of the signs, and on the right side loomed the high tower of St. Michael’s Church, a large, imposing gothic cathedral.

Crowley parked the Ford on the surprisingly large parking lot next to the church.

Aziraphale was still sleeping. Crowley decided to let him sleep, since his last miracle had taken it out of him.

Aziraphale hadn’t just pulled them out of danger. He’d dropped them at the other end of Romania. Crowley supposed he should feel lucky that they had still been in the same country. Due to this unforeseen detour, however, it was now late afternoon.

Crowley mingled with the pedestrians and their post-work grocery shopping. The voices around him were a mix of Romanian and Hungarian, with the rarest bit of English from one or two tourists he passed.

As described, he found the small house next to the church and rang the doorbell for the church administration. The priest opened the door.

He was young – maybe in his thirties. It surprised Crowley more than he would have thought. Priests in his book were always bitter, old men. This one, however, had a neat haircut and a plain face – an utterly unassuming man that Crowley wouldn’t have looked at twice just a short week ago.

“I need help,” He said. Potentially the first time in history a demon had uttered these words to a priest in complete sincerity.

The priest looked at him again, more closely this time. Then a warm smile spread across his face.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

He spoke English with a soft Hungarian accent. The intonation sounded musical to Crowley, who had spent little time on the continent in the last decades, and who could not remember a time when he did not have miracles at his disposal to help him communicate.

Inside, it turned out, contained furniture in exclusively dark wood, and a musty smell that made Crowley think of a church, even though the administrative-building-slash-priest-residence was not hallowed ground and would have no reason to be. The pastor led him to a living room that was clearly used for outside visitors – the thing was painfully clean, no TV remotes or half-empty glasses strewn about, just a couple of chairs arranged around a coffee table, upon which a bible had been placed.

The priest got Crowley settled and brought him a glass of water, then sat down himself. Crowley’s stomach grumbled. He ignored it, fully aware that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Halfway across Romania, Aziraphale? Really?

“I’m Father Mihály,” the priest said after sitting down. His voice was calm, soothing. “What’s your name?”

“Anthony,” Crowley said reflexively, then – belatedly: “Crowley.”

Father Mihály nodded. He kept his hands folded in his lap, leaning back in his chair serenely. Crowley expected him to continue the conversation, but he just sat and waited.

Crowley took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure how to put this. I’m not even remotely sure how much you’ll believe me. But I have an unconscious angel of the Lord in a car outside and we need a place to lay low for the night.”

A look of surprise passed Father Mihály’s face, but it was brief – a raising of eyebrows, an opening of the mouth in shock. Then he composed himself.

“Should we tend to that first, perhaps? It seems like you have an interesting story to tell.”

* * *

Crowley wasn’t sure if Father Mihály had believed him. He seemed to be taking the whole thing in stride, which was not how the Bible had made all those encounters with humans out to be. It was all ‘ _Be not afraid_ ’ and humans falling to their knees and praying. Then again, Crowley wasn’t an angel.

Crowley woke Aziraphale gently and introduced Father Mihály. He didn’t tell Aziraphale that he’d revealed their identities to a human, and Mihály made no move that would betray that he knew. He simply walked them back to the church square, but instead of taking them into the administrative building, took them around and to a side entry of the church.

Crowley stopped at the doorstep.

“This is going to be a little awkward,” He said, “But I’d prefer to wait outside.”

Mihály simply nodded and began to guide Aziraphale inside.

“Where are you taking him?” Crowley called, suddenly nervous to let Aziraphale out of his sight. Maybe Felix had been wrong. Maybe this was a bad idea.

To Crowley’s surprise, Mihály stopped walking and turned back to Crowley.

“The sacristy,” He said, in a tone that entreated Crowley to trust him. “He’ll be undisturbed there.”

It was the way Aziraphale looked that convinced Crowley. He appeared drawn to the church, as if there was something between its walls that he needed. Divine types. He probably wanted to stare at the altar in awe and then catalogue all the paintings and statues.

Crowley nodded; tacit approval implied.

“Why don’t you wait for me in the café over there? I’ll just get him settled.”

Crowley made eye contact with Aziraphale. Now he wished he’d woken him up before he went to see the priest. He should have apologized for what he said before the angels showed up. He should have thanked him for saving them.

Aziraphale caught his eye and gave him a small smile – weary, but familiar.

Crowley let them go.

Father Mihály returned about an hour later. Crowley had settled in the small café a couple of minutes’ walk away from the church, on a nice chair under one of the blue umbrellas. He’d ordered himself something of the menu blindly, since he didn’t speak a lick of Romanian without the help of a miracle. It had turned out to be a soup. His stomach felt much better, and Crowley himself much less fatalistic.

Mihály ordered a coffee, then surprised Crowley by lighting a cigarette.

“Would you like to tell me a little bit more about yourself, Anthony?”

They were briefly interrupted by the delivery of the coffee.

Crowley fidgeted. This had been easier with Felix, and he hadn’t even told Felix the whole story. Then again, Felix had implied that Mihály would be able to help Crowley, and he couldn’t very well do that if Crowley withheld information.

He decided to test the waters.

“I’m a demon,” he said.

Father Mihály nodded. Again, there was a brief look of surprise, but he composed himself quickly, almost effortlessly. Did they teach that in seminary? Or was it years of practise of having people spill their worst in the confessional? Whatever it was, Crowley envied that trick.

“The angel, he’s… he’s my friend. He was…”

Shit. How was he going to explain to a priest what Heaven had done? This was absolutely a bad idea.

“Yes?” Father Mihály prodded gently. When Crowley met his eyes, they showed nothing but an honest desire to listen.

They absolutely did teach that in seminary.

Fuck it, Crowley decided.

“Some angels kidnapped him to settle an unsettled score from a couple of decades back when we saved the world together. They tortured him, and now he’s weak and needs time to recover. And I’m a liability because Heaven can trace my miracles.”

Father Mihály nodded along, then closed his eyes in contemplation. Serene was absolutely the word to describe him.

“Tell me a bit more about your friend.”

“He’s the kindest soul I know,” Crowley confided, though he knew Aziraphale was a crotchety old bastard at times. “He’s just so innocent. He…”

Crowley found himself struggling for words. Or rather, trying to contain the only words that swam about his mind.

_I love him, he’s my everything, I’ve known him since the Earth was created, I love him._

A small smile played about Mihály’s lips.

“I meant, why did Heaven hurt him like this?”

Crowley turned bright red; he could feel his cheeks burning. “Oh.”

He cleared his throat. “I see.”

He took a moment to put everything into terms that a human would understand. It felt like he shouldn’t be laying out all this information, but Father Mihály had yet to run screaming or combust into flames from forbidden knowledge, so Crowley figured it must be alright.

“I don’t know what they wanted him for but… well, a couple of years ago – decades, really, by now – the world was supposed to end – or it wasn’t, I guess – and Aziraphale and I tried to stop it from ending. And it didn’t end – I mean, obviously, we’re all still here – but Heaven and Hell were mad at us for going against the official doctrine, and so they tried to kill us. But we outsmarted them – there was a prophecy from a witch from the sixteenth century – and so we figured they’d leave us alone. Until three weeks ago, when four angels came and kidnapped Aziraphale.”

Every time he was forced to recount the events, Crowley felt the fear creep up his throat again.

“Gabriel was so mad, but we figured he’d leave us alone. There were even conversations again with some of the other angels. A normalisation of relations, I suppose you could say. And then this happens.”

He didn’t even have the energy to be spiteful. He was just tired, and scared, and worried.

“Will you pray with me?” Father Mihály asked.

Crowley must have made a face, because the priest laughed. “I get that a lot.”

It couldn’t hurt, Crowley reasoned. Not worse than walking on hallowed ground, anyway. He acquiesced. Mihály took his hand.

“ _Sancte Michael, defende nos in proelio ut non pereamus in tremendo iudicio_.”

He made a sign of the cross. Crowley decided he didn’t need to take it that far.

“Thank you,” Father Mihály said, “I feel like praying helps centre my thoughts.”

Crowley didn’t comment.

“The good news is, I think your friend will be safe in my church,” Father Mihály continued. “I cannot offer you the same shelter, but I have a feeling that’s secondary to you, anyway.”

Crowley disliked being read. He disliked being read accurately even more.

“I’m sorry, but how are you not losing your shit right now?” Crowley asked. “I told you I’m a demon, I’ve basically kidnapped an angel of the Lord, and you’re just… sitting there!”

“Call it intuition,” Father Mihály said, then added: “I’ve made a practise of never judging anybody until I know everything there is to know about them. People will often surprise you if you don’t judge them ahead of time.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, took a sip of his coffee.

“For example, if I had made my decision on your character when I first suspected something was different about you – refusing to enter my church – I never would have gotten to hear your story.”

He gave Crowley a meaningful look.

It seemed that when it came to Aziraphale, everybody and the angel and demon on their shoulders knew how far gone Crowley was.

Crowley wanted to like Mihály. He seemed nice enough. Decent, even, for a priest. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to. Crowley had never met a priest free of judgement. As far as he was concerned, that was their core business.

“Look. I’m only here because a friend of mine told me you might be able to help me with my problem. I need to get rid of this tracker that Heaven put on me. Can you help me with that?”

Father Mihály shrugged. “I’m sorry, that is beyond me.”

Crowley should have expected it. He didn’t know why Felix had thought a human, of all people, would be able to help Crowley.

Crowley made to get up.

“Well, this has been lovely, but in that case, we’d best be getting on.”

“Who is like God?” Father Mihály asked. The question froze Crowley on the spot.

Mihály seemed to chuckle, though he still maintained an air of sincerity.

“Sore topic?”

Slowly, Crowley sat back down. “You could say that.”

“That’s what Mihály means, you know. Michael. I chose the name for the church and the place. _Who is like God_. It’s a question, not a judgement.”

“I don’t think you’ve met Michael,” Crowley snorted. He remembered the words as the distinct battle cry of one very self-righteous archangel. The story of the original rebellion, both in Heaven and Hell as well as on Earth, had become mythologised beyond recognition. Still, that phrase struck like a blow, rang clear as a bell.

“No, but Father Tamás has. Back in the 15th century.”

That gave Crowley pause. “I thought angels didn’t socialise like that. Especially archangels.”

“They used to,” Mihály responded, “And this is his church, after all.”

“Her church,” Crowley corrected absent-mindedly.

“I’m saying, not everybody in Heaven might be as set in their ways as you imagine.”

“No offense, Father,” Crowley said, “But I was there, and I can tell you, they’re all very much set in their ways. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Father Mihály raised his hands in a pacifying gesture.

“Just a thought.”

“Just today, we were apprehended by about five angels who seemed very much _set in their ways_ ,” Crowley hissed, “And until I find a way to stop myself from slipping with the goddamn miracles, Aziraphale and I will continue to be in danger from angels who are _set in their goddamn ways_.”

Aziraphale would have told him to mind his language. Aziraphale was probably currently unconscious in the sacristy of a Hungarian church in Romania. Given that fact, Crowley would curse as much as it took to retain a hold of his sanity.

Crowley thought he could finally see Father Mihály slip a little bit. There was a pained expression on his face. Well, it was always the same. They always believed there was something salvageable about him, and he always let them down.

Aziraphale was the only one who’d been able to unite the demon part with the part of him that wanted to be less of an asshole.

“I can’t help you get rid of any tracker Heaven might have put on you,” Mihály said, “I don’t know anything about magic. But I do know one way to remove the temptation, if you’ll permit my phrasing.”

Crowley perked up.

“There are ways – or so I’ve heard – for your kind to renounce your occult nature. You can bind your essence to your human bodies permanently, and then live out your lives much like any human would. No magic. No eternal life. Just one short lifespan, maybe a good one.”

Crowley’s eyes were transfixed by the priest. Remove the temptation indeed.

Become human.

Crowley smiled a mirthless smile. Oh, he recognised the taste of this solution – the price so high that one had to be crazy or extraordinarily self-sacrificing to pay it. Well – She always knew exactly how to push Crowley’s buttons.

“It’s the only thing that comes to mind,” Father Mihály offered apologetically. “If it’s not what you hoped for, I understand.”

“No, it’s alright.”

Crowley would shout at God later. He would tell Her exactly what he thought of this, and it would involve a few other words Aziraphale wouldn’t like if he heard them.

This wasn’t a solution. It was a death sentence.

“Go ahead. How do you do it?”

“Oh, I don’t do it at all.” Mihály shook his head. “I simply heard that it was possible. And it seems a solution to your predicament.”

“But you know someone who does, right?”

Crowley’s patience regarding the priest was wearing very thin.

Father Mihály pursed his lips. Whenever he spoke, it sounded so calmly articulate in his soft Hungarian accent that it galled Crowley even more. If he had something terrible to say, it should better sound like it, too.

“There’s an abbey back West. Ghent. _Sint-Christoffelsabdij_.”

Crowley let his eyes fall shut. Another stop. More driving. Yet more road ahead of him before he could experience some semblance of safety.

“And a monk there will know how to do this, yes?”

“Not exactly a monk. From what I’ve been told, you have to stand in the _quadrum_ of the monastery at two am if you want to meet them.”

“What kind of a priest are you?” Crowley asked, glancing over his sunglasses at Father Mihály. This wasn’t normal. The priest shouldn’t be taking all these things in stride, or give Crowley information on where to meet contacts who sounded suspiciously like more supernatural beings.

“I’m just a normal priest,” Father Mihály shrugged, “I don’t ask too many judgemental questions. I prefer to listen. People tell me things. He gave Crowley another one of his pointed looks. “Like you.”

Crowley had to give him that one.

“I entered the seminary because I wanted to help people,” Father Mihály added. “So many people here are in crisis. They turn to their church for help. I figured that, when they did, they should find somebody there who likes helping people, and doesn’t just pray to God for intervention.”

Crowley appreciated the sentiment. If only he could bring himself halfway to believing that the priest meant it. But belief was not something that came easily to Crowley anymore.

He got up.

“We’ll stay the night if that’s alright, Father.”

“Of course. Your friend can stay in the sacristy. He seemed to find it very comforting.”

Crowley snorted. “I can imagine.”

Father Mihály showed him to the guest room. Crowley felt lightheaded and couldn’t tell if it was from the long hours of driving or the thoughts spinning around in his head. Turn himself human.

At least he wouldn’t have to decide anything just yet.

* * *

**HUNGARY, DAY 5 ON THE ROAD.**

Crowley drove them the first five hours back into Hungary and about halfway through the country before he took a break. He hadn’t exactly had a restful night’s sleep, but it was better than whatever he’d had before, and so he would take it.

Aziraphale looked a lot better. His face had regained some colour, and he even ate the pastry Crowley got him at a rest stop. That alone gave Crowley the energy to drive two more hours.

“You’re looking better,” He said.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, “Your friend was very kind to let me stay in such a beautiful church. I feel revitalized.”

Crowley didn’t know if churches really had that effect; but also hadn’t been an angel long enough to have any knowledge to dispute it.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ghent,” Crowley answered, “We have to keep moving.”

He didn’t want to talk about what Father Mihály had said yet. Crowley still didn’t know what Aziraphale and the pastor had discussed, either yesterday afternoon or this morning before they had set out. Crowley didn’t dare ask.

Crowley _wanted_ to ask Aziraphale if he would finally be willing to talk about Heaven. It was the only way they’d achieve some semblance of normalcy again. Unfortunately, he was also getting tired of running up against walls. He looked over at Aziraphale and wanted reaching out to feel as normal as it had felt just weeks before, but instead it felt as forbidden as it had for most of their shared existence: Aziraphale – holy, but untouchable.

And always Crowley to keep him safe.

With the calm humming of the motor in the background – his stupid miracle apparently really had fixed whatever was wrong with it – Crowley allowed himself to relax a little bit. Outside, Europe rushed past the windows of the car, the drought of late summer leaving fields dusty, the air that was coming in through the cracked windows fragrant with hay and late summer fruits mixing with the exhaust fumes of cars on the highway. Aziraphale in the passenger seat drifted in and out of sleep and stared out of the window at the landscape when he wasn’t sleeping.

It shot Crowley right through the heart every time he looked at Aziraphale. All the things they’d done together, and now they were finally up against something they couldn’t contend with. Crowley had no smart idea for getting out of Heaven’s grasp, still had no earthly idea what they were planning, but he knew that he’d do everything in his power to keep Aziraphale safe.

He just hoped he’d come up with something other than what Father Mihály had suggested before they reached Ghent.

“I think I never thanked you,” Aziraphale said, “For getting me out.”

“No need,” Crowley said, though the little leap of his heart said otherwise.

* * *

**GOTTHARD TUNNEL, SWITZERLAND, DAY SIX ON THE ROAD**

They spent the night in the car in a little village in Slovenia, then drove on through Italy and finally up into Switzerland. Crowley avoided the busiest roads where he could, though he didn’t know if Heaven was actively tracking them or if avoiding busy roads would help at all. It made him feel better and sleep soundly at night. In the end, that was what counted.

The rapidly dwindling supply of cash concerned him. Gas was by far their largest expense, but unfortunately, it was an expensive expense, and Crowley had never wished for an electric car more fervently in six thousand years of existence. It was a bit embarrassing. Then again, an electric car would probably have trouble finding loading stations on the roads they were taking. Crowley decided to deal with the money problem when it became more acute. Maybe Aziraphale had been more foresightful than him, and had some money stashed away somewhere. Or maybe he’d be able to perform miracles again by the time it became a real problem.

Switzerland in summer unsettled Crowley, because he felt that it should be snow-covered at all times, and then it wasn’t and just looked like a normal country and nothing like in the post cards. Crowley was glad when they hit the tunnel. From here on, he should be able to make the drive up to Belgium with only one or two more stops for gas and food, and maybe half an hour of shut-eye.

He was getting good at this.

Driving into the tunnel was the first time Crowley felt like he could breathe.

Hell, the humid subterranean basement had always felt oppressive to him. Right now, however, he liked nothing better than the idea of over a kilometre of rock and stone, massive granite and snow, sheltering him from the curious eyes of Heaven. No open skies. Just the artificial, fluorescent street lights, the tail lights of the cars in front of him and every now and then the green indicators of emergency exits.

The drive took them about fifteen minutes. There was a bit of a backup towards the end of the tunnel. Crowley welcomed the slow traffic – he dreaded the return under an open sky. Aziraphale felt less comfortable with the commotion.

“Something’s up,” He decided when they had stopped moving for two minutes with the tunnel mouth in distant view. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You’re just anxious, angel. I swear, I didn’t perform any miracles this time. It’s just the end of the summer holidays. A regular traffic-jam.”

And nothing miraculous about it. Crowley whistled badly under his breath.

“If you say so,” Aziraphale said crossly. Crowley felt he had earned a little more trust than that, since he had gotten them from Romania to Switzerland without incident.

It took another five minutes for the backup ahead of them to resolve, then Crowley could drive them out of the tunnel. He sighed as the last of the orange lights above filtered out of view.

What he saw as he turned his gaze back up ahead made him wish he could eat his words.

The sky was a blue-grey expanse of darkness above them. First Crowley thought it was night, but the drive through the tunnel hadn’t taken that long, and it was only four in the afternoon, not a respectable time for night in August at all. Then he recognised the shape of darkness as heavy storm clouds, building up for miles and miles above them. A gust of wind blasted them from the side, noticeably shaking the car, which should not have been possible with the weight of the machine, plus the two bodies inside it. Then, the rain hit them.

“This isn’t normal!” Crowley yelled, panicking.

“Do you believe that something’s up now?” Aziraphale yelled back, the smug bastard.

“What is this?” Crowley shouted, only now managing to hit the windshield wipers. Not that they did anything much.

“I have to tell you something,” Aziraphale replied, struggling to make his voice carry over the heavy onslaught of the rain. “It’s about Heaven.”

* * *

There was a little parking lot not far from the tunnel exit. Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t the only ones who’d decided to stop there until they could figure out what was happening, but all things considered, the humans were very well-behaved. They didn’t yet understand the scale of the problem.

Aziraphale was speaking in a calm, rational voice.

“Gabriel was not just out for revenge, Crowley. He has a plan. I was hoping that your rescuing me would put a stop to it all, but either he got what he needed before you got me out or he figured out the trick himself.”

The rain was picking up instead of letting off. It seemed impossible for the clouds to contain that much water. That alone let Crowley know that Aziraphale was talking sense. At least the surrounding mountains probably sheltered them from the worst of the wind, though Crowley couldn’t see much of them. The rain reduced visibility to a few hundred metres.

“Gabriel wants the Apocalypse. He has convinced himself that because it was written, it is sanctified. If it doesn’t want to come on its own, then he is determined to help it along.”

Aziraphale was kneading his hands again, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Crowley could tell it was taking something out of him to talk about all of this.

“How do you play into all of this?” Crowley asked, confused. Aziraphale flinched, and Crowley immediately regretted asking.

“Gabriel is not as used as some of the other angels to the idea that there is no script to follow anymore. Free thinking – free will, if you must – doesn’t come easily to him. He was hoping I could teach him.”

“That didn’t look much like teaching to me what he was doing,” Crowley growled.

Aziraphale gave him a look of exasperated fondness. It was in moments of familiarity like this that Crowley’s heart was ready to leap out of his chest and curl up in the angel’s lap. But Crowley had to focus on the problem at hand.

“He wanted to see if there was something that could… bring me back. Into the fold of the Host. Most of the time he seemed very frustrated – either with me or his progress. My… _recollection_ is not the best.” He gave an apologetic smile. “The torture, you know?”

Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale _tsked_.

“Oh, calm down. You already had your revenge on quite a few of Gabriel’s lackeys, if memory serves. Not your smartest escape plan, was it?”

Crowley could feel his cheeks burning.

“You remember that?”

“Your form is quite memorable, my dear.”

The endearment slipped out, and then Aziraphale’s mouth hung open for a second. Crowley wanted desperately to assure him that it was fine, that they didn’t need to talk about that right now, but felt like talking would make things worse.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Rain pattered on the windshield, and Crowley thought of Biblical plagues.

How bad was it out there?

“Do you know any of Gabriel’s… plan?”

Aziraphale shrugged, a little helpless. “Like I said, my recollection is not the best.”

Crowley peered out the window. “I guess we’ll find out as we go.”

* * *

They drove on. Crowley’s GPS was useless, so he had to use road signs and his best judgement. And there was one other thing bothering him –

“I assume we’re going to have to kill Gabriel,” Aziraphale interrupted his train of thought.

Crowley almost got them into a collision by an emergency brake manoeuvre, and only narrowly regained his wits. He’d never been so glad to drive a manual.

“What?”

Aziraphale was perfectly serene, in spite of his obviously insane idea and Crowley’s reckless driving.

“I said, we’re going to have to kill Gabriel. If this keeps up.”

“I understood you. I just don’t _understand_.”

They kept passing cars by the side of the road, mostly people on their way back from a holiday, who’d run out of gas. Some cars were abandoned, others had people still in them. The asphalt of the road was slick with water, and Crowley had seen more than one car sliding when braking too hard. Aquaplaning was a bitch.

“Well, this is all rather unnatural. Keeping it up should require effort. Knowing Gabriel, he wouldn’t trust anybody else with it.”

The calm exterior that Aziraphale portrayed was a world away from the catatonic angel two days ago. Maybe he was going into shock. People had strange reactions to shock.

“When Gabriel is killed, all this should… snap back.”

Another car by the side of the road. This guy actually had gone through the motions of setting up an emergency sign. As if anything still mattered. As if anything would survive this storm.

Crowley had seen it once before.

“Aziraphale,” He said, trying to mimic Aziraphale’s calm, to not let the terror in his stomach show. “This is beyond saving.”

They were nearing Basel. Crowley tried to pull up a mental map of Europe and plot a route to Belgium. He’d have to get through France, for sure. Or Germany. One of the two seemed like it would be in the way.

Aziraphale seemed more rested. Maybe he could get their GPS to work again with a small miracle – but Crowley had a feeling it would take more than a small miracle to restore cell phone services.

“Doesn’t GPS work with those things they put in the sky? Satellites?” Crowley had never paid much attention to technological advances beyond finding out how to mess with them. “I feel like at least my GPS should work.”

“Unless Gabriel took out the satellites,” Aziraphale offered. Crowley gave him a look.

“You seem awfully convinced it was all Gabriel. If you ask me, this is a bit beyond a single angel.”

Aziraphale just shrugged, as if he wasn’t even going to try to convince Crowley if Crowley didn’t want to be convinced. Crowley felt a pang of disappointment at that – Aziraphale normally never let a chance to be right pass him by.

“Maybe I can figure out a way to call him to us. Then we could kill him together.”

“You keep talking about this, angel. I’m telling you; it’s not happening. We’re going to Belgium.”

“We can still kill him in Belgium,” Aziraphale said, once again demonstrating his capacity for flawless reasoning. Crowley had to swerve to avoid a car that was running out of gas right in front of him.

“Stop saying that!”

“What?”

“That you’ll kill Gabriel!”

Crowley suppressed his instinct to look around nervously. Killing an angel surely was a one-way ticket downstairs. And the boys downstairs would not be kind with Aziraphale. Not for who he was, and definitely not for who he was to Crowley.

Oh no, Crowley would not allow this. It was a bad plan from start to finish.

“Instead of coming up with half-assed schemes, how about you start thinking about how we can avoid turning into one of these unlucky sods?”

Crowley pointed at one of the cars by the side of the road. They still had roughly eight-hundred kilometres to go, and a tank that was a little over half full. By Crowley’s reckoning, they could make about a quarter of that drive before they had to deal with whatever had kept the humans from refuelling.

He wasn’t too keen to find out.

* * *

**A CONVERSATION AT THE BOTTOM OF A STAIRWELL, NOT APPROVED BY THE HIGHER-UPS.**

“Why exactly should we trust her?”

“She’s an angel. The question is, why should she trust _us_ , isn’t it?”

The two figures were named Daeva and Ipes, and they were remarkable, in the books of Hell, mostly for how unremarkable they were.

Daeva kept records. He had always kept records, or at least as long as there had been records to keep. He had invented a title for himself, because Hell was boring as… well, Hell, and all the bigger demons there had titles. But nobody called him by his chosen title (Lord of Papercuts), and to him, that about summed up the place.

Ipes was part of Hell’s field staff, but his job had been scrapped off the books in the 17th century. He had been in the business of giving people horrible visions about their future, or insights into the past that were too large for the human mind to comprehend. But one day Hell had told him that these kinds of services wouldn’t be needed anymore, and that he should hang around and wait for a new assignment.

He was still waiting.

The (arch)angel Uriel took their contemplative silence as a good sign.

She had never been down here. Michael was the one with connections, but Michael was also the one who had a hard time with everything that was going on right now. Uriel… she felt strangely prepared for this. For the first time, things made sense, even though the way things had been had completely gone out the window – apparently, she was good in a crisis.

She remembered that Aziraphale had said something about freedom of choice and growth. She couldn’t quite piece it together right now, but it had been very good.

“You don’t need to decide right now, you know.”

Sizing up the two demons in front of her, she wondered where this was going. They were young – not in years but in their minds, not used to their freedom any more than most of the angels Uriel had talked to. They were all children, learning to walk on cold, hard ground for the first time.

Children fell. That was what Michael was afraid of.

Uriel had faith. She was following this faith where it took her, which was right here, right now, talking with two minor demons about overthrowing the commander of the Heavenly legions. She also trusted that Gabriel had faith, and that he was following what he thought was best.

Out of balance. Had somebody said they were out of balance?

“We believe you.”

Ipes was the one who spoke. Uriel had him down as the more likely candidate, if she was being honest – he was dissatisfied, not merely curious, which was always promising in a rebel. He’d had ambition that had been squashed, and now it smouldered, ready to turn into a wildfire.

“Good,” Uriel said.

Daeva still looked nervous. He had bat-wing-like webbing between his fingers, and they folded and unfolded in a steady rhythm that Uriel wasn’t privy to.

“Why are you telling us this?”

Uriel’s teeth flashed in a delighted grin. Maybe Daeva was the smarter one after all.

“Because you’ve just seen what Gabriel pulled off. And he didn’t pull it off alone. And if you didn’t hear about who did it down here, then you’re just as out of the loop as we are.”

Daeva frowned, and Uriel leaned forward. “It means you’ve been left behind. I’m offering you a chance to get even.”

* * *

**GHENT, BELGIUM, DAY SEVEN ON THE ROAD**

“What makes you so sure that the monastery is still there?”

Crowley had taken them off the highways and into the countryside after stealing a roadmap from a rest stop that was completely out of gas. The roads were worse, but the second petrol station they hit still had some fuel left.

It did mean that every time they hit a low-lying road with flooding, Crowley started praying. It had gotten worse the further North they got, the land flat and prone to flooding even without angelic intervention.

Crowley shrugged. If he was being honest, he had stopped being sure of anything at some point behind the French border. But he didn’t know what else to do besides keep going.

He could always roll over and die later.

Things were bad.

The flooding wasn’t Biblical, but it was pretty close. Traffic had stalled in many places. Houses had been washed away by the torrential floods. Crowley stopped his brain from trying to estimate a death toll. It was pointless. The body count would only rise over the next days and weeks.

Crowley had to drive around the city for a bit. The address of the monastery was his only clue, and had never been here before, but eventually he got lucky and hit one of those signs that let tourists know where sights were. After that, things went comparatively smoothly.

He half expected the monastery to be razed to the ground. He was surprised to find it still standing.

Crowley had not seen a lot of monasteries up close, or he would have been able to recognise the style of the building as typical for a Cistercian monastery. The buildings were simple, whitewashed, the roofs tiled, and it looked old, though subtle improvements had been made, doubtless to bring the brothers some of the comforts of modern life. The front was a two-story building, the church tower visible on the left side. The no doubt once beautiful front lawn was soaked through, the birch trees uprooted by a wind that had now abated. But there were lights in some of the buildings.

Crowley made a gesture that was supposed to encompass his _I told you so_ without actually saying it out loud. Aziraphale was well enough accustomed to him that he understood, and in turn gave him a sour look.

“This isn’t going to be like the church, is it?” Aziraphale asked as they got out of the car. Crowley still didn’t like the Ford, but now it felt wrong leaving the poor car out in the open like that. It had gotten them halfway across Europe and back, after all. A demon doesn’t survive that and still feel bitter towards the car.

“It’s can’t all be hallowed ground, can it?” Crowley reasoned, making his way to what he assumed was the front door. “Otherwise it’s going to be a terribly dull life. I’ll just steer clear of the chapel.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Have you ever been in a monastery before?”

Crowley chose not to comment. There were some things the angel didn’t have to know.

Aziraphale gave him another look. “I’ll do the talking.”

Crowley raised his arms in placation. “Sure.”

* * *

The brother at the front door was approximately a million years old, at least by Crowley’s reckoning. His face was more wrinkles than actual structure, his hands gnarled with age, and his hair more memory than actual fact on his head. He squinted at Aziraphale, who did his best to present himself properly after several days without showers in a car.

He couldn’t help it. He just gave off radiance. People just felt like trusting him.

“ _Wie bent U?_ ”

“Oh, sorry, we’re – “ Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, who just gave him a shrug. He didn’t speak Dutch, either. “We’re just looking for a place to stay, yes?”

Crowley nodded behind him. “It’s dreadful out there,” he added, helpfully.

“What’s your name?” Aziraphale asked the brother.

“ _Mijn naam?_ ” The old monk squinted. “ _Broer Benedictus_.”

“I thought you were going to do the talking,” Crowley hissed at Aziraphale, “ _Do some talking._ ”

“I don’t speak Dutch,” Aziraphale hissed back, in a display the monk was more familiar with than either of them knew. He had seen his share of English tourists in search of the beer.

Aziraphale sighed. “Is it absolutely essential that we stay here?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose…” Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and inquired about lodgings in flawless Dutch.

Crowley scanned their surroundings nervously. He still didn’t trust anything when it came to only his miracles being tracked. But no beams of light came upon them from the Heavens.

Aziraphale hashed out the details with the brother. The old man seemed to not like the look of Crowley, which Crowley wouldn’t begrudge him for, but which _was_ getting old. He’d much preferred religion when they were a little more like the Renaissance popes and a little less… actually religious.

Crowley stayed close to Aziraphale as they made their way through the monastery. His feet did not burn, and no alarm bells rang at the intrusion of a demon into the hallowed halls. There were one or two more monks out in the hallways, both wearing the same white robe with a black cape, belted at the hip and a little hood in the back. Aziraphale kept translating as they went.

“He says they saw the desolation outside and were very concerned. We’re not the first refugees, though he says we’re the first foreigners. Apart from a German couple who came through, who left again to look for their daughter. And a Spanish backpacker, who also left. And Brother Bonifatius, who is from Kenya, but he lives here, so…”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he kept translating.

“They have a couple of beds, still, though they’re trying to ration their food. All communication with the outside world is broken off – not that they have much of that here, anyway – but they have been reliably informed – “ Aziraphale glanced up. “ – that this is not a regular weather event. Apparently, they get lots of those in Flanders.”

Broer Benedictus led them to a small cell that was empty save for two cots and two small chairs. The monastery being able to host so many refugees was telling. Not many monks these days, Crowley thought sardonically. 

“This is where we’ll be staying,” Aziraphale said. Crowley flung his bag down on one of the cots.

“Perfect.”

Aziraphale thanked Broer Benedictus in Dutch, then turned and slumped back on his own cot as soon as the brother disappeared from view.

“That… shouldn’t have been so exhausting.”

Crowley hovered nervously. “You needn’t have kept translating for so long.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale said, “Just takes it out of me, you know?”

Crowley was back to nervously staring at Aziraphale, waiting for him to pass out any minute now. Aziraphale, however, kept it together – barely, but he did.

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Crowley suggested, “I’ll wander around a bit, see if I can find us some food.”

“Why exactly did we come here?” Aziraphale asked. There was a frown on his face, as though for the first time he was realising that there must be something behind the relentlessness with which Crowley had driven them into Eastern Europe and back, even through all this desolation.

Crowley didn’t intend to let him dwell on it.

“Sleep. It’ll all make more sense when you wake up.”

* * *

Even though he was on the opposite side of the monastery from the church, Crowley could almost feel its presence as he ambled through the halls. It was as if centuries of monks walking the halls had ingrained some of the hallowed essence of it into the very floors of the monastery. It made his feet itch.

He met a few brothers, but no one made any moves to stop him. The normal rules seemed to be temporarily suspended, as the brothers turned away from the study of their holy texts and back to one of the earliest task of monasteries: to provide shelter for travellers in need, to be a safe haven in a storm whose bounds were hard to measure.

He found the brothers’ dormitory, and the chapterhouse next to it. The chapterhouse was empty, the brothers now gathering for evening mass in the chapel.

He took a left turn after the chapterhouse because he was getting close to the chapel itself. Instead, he stepped out into the _quadrum_ , and took a deep breath of the rain-filled evening air.

He hoped to God – to Satan – that Father Mihály’s contact at the monastery really was a supernatural entity. He didn’t really feel like spending a week finding inconspicuous ways to ask every Brother in this abbey if they knew a Romanian priest who chain smoked.

Time ticked by slowly.

Crowley dug around in his pocket for a smoke as singing rang out through the windows of the chapel, but unfortunately the only smokes his pockets had ever contained had been brought there by miracles. He rolled his eyes and sighed, leaning back against the pillar. When the monks returned from their evening prayer, Crowley melted into the shadow of a pillar of the _quadrum_.

And more hours passed.

Crowley was not surprised to find his watch had stopped as well. He had tangentially been aware of watch batteries but protected by the luxury of being able to warp reality around him to his will, he’d never been pressed to find out what exactly they were needed for. In hindsight, it was glaringly obvious.

It stopped raining sometime after the bell in the chapel tower rang out ten. The torrential downpour had slowed over the last hours. Still, Crowley didn’t take this as a sign of relief. The taste of Biblical destruction was heavy in the air even without the rain. Crowley had tasted the same in Mesopotamia, in Sodom and Gomorrah, in Jerusalem.

Now it was everywhere.

No, Crowley was entirely convinced that this was the end times.

The bell struck eleven.

He walked up and down the _quadrum_ a bit to warm himself. The original design of the monastery had left the cloister around the courtyard open, but some daring architect had installed glass panes, presumably to keep the monks warm on their way to church. It did mean that Crowley didn’t dare step inside the cloister, for fear of missing Father Mihály’s mysterious contact. Instead, he stood outside, shivering. It also meant that Crowley, while he was cold, got to admire some truly stunning medieval architecture ruined by later modern additions.

The bell struck twelve.

At least Aziraphale was asleep. Crowley didn’t know what to make of his newfound energy and determination to kill Gabriel. Entertaining the odd revenge fantasy every now and then was all fine and well, but Aziraphale had seemed just a little too resolute for Crowley’s taste.

The bell struck one. Crowley was moving from cold into miserable.

He’d _like_ to kill Gabriel. But Crowley had long ago stopped relying on his instincts as far as possible life changing decisions were concerned. He was a demon. He was basically wired to make bad decisions. Aziraphale had generally been his idea of a moral compass, or at least as much of one as a demon could stand. And after years of learning through watching and mimicking Aziraphale, he could tell this was _way_ off.

Now that the brothers had all gone to bed and the rain had stopped, Crowley was free to pace.

Gabriel really was going to kill them all just to be right. That was, if Aziraphale was correct. Gabriel was really going to tear down God’s creation because he didn’t like the season’s latest plot twist. As if the archangel had never seen a disappointing TV show.

Crowley finished another lap of the _quadrum_.

“Oh my God,” A voice rang out from somewhere above him. “Would you stop?”

The voice was a raspy, grating whine of a sound, utterly inhuman, and incredibly annoyed. Crowley whirled around.

“Up here,” the voice said. Crowley looked up.

The gargoyle perched – well, it perched where gargoyles perched: atop a gutter, where errant rainwater still gurgled quietly from the roof. It had perky ears that might as well be horns, a set of dragon wings that had been sculpted in artful detail by some medieval mason, and a mouth full of teeth with two very sharp incisors. Around his neck was a mane that was reminiscent of a lion, if a lion had time to regularly coif his curls into artful locks. Its back was hunched, and its eyes – though stone – were far too intelligent.

Crowley flinched.

“Yeah, that’s right. You should be scared, motherfucker.”

The gargoyle shifted its stance into more of a crouch.

“This isn’t demon territory.”

“Hey now, just hear me out!” Crowley raised both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not here to start trouble.”

The gargoyle frowned.“Never heard that from a demon before.”

Crowley was getting tired of explaining his good intentions to people who weren’t interested in believing him.

“Father Mihály sent me,” He tried.

“Never heard of him. Mihály, what kind of a name is that?”

The gargoyle seemed to want to prowl, but only managed to shift in place a little bit. Maybe he was stuck there, the hopeful part of Crowley reasoned, remembering the incisors. He had no desire to find out if they were actually sharp.

“Look, I’m here with a Principality. We need help.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s that angel?” The gargoyle gave him a suspicious frown. “Punk.”

Whatever Crowley had been expecting to find, this wasn’t it.

“Oh, I’m a punk? Well, you’re a dick,” He yelled, before he remembered that one, he needed to be quiet lest he wake up the monks and two, whatever he felt towards the gargoyle, he needed the thing’s help.

“I’m sorry!” He said, more quietly this time.

“You better be,” The gargoyle mumbled. “That was mean.”

“Can we start over?”

“You’re a weird demon,” The gargoyle stated matter-of-factly. It had a way of bouncing around topics, half-finished thoughts, like it was having three conversations at once.

Crowley took a deep breath. He reasoned that it probably didn’t talk to a lot of people, up there on the roof over the cloister, only awake for a couple of hours every night with nothing but Belgian monks for company. That was enough to make anyone a little strange.

“Yes, and I’m endeavouring to be a little less of a weird demon, if you know what I mean. I have a problem that requires I renounce my occult nature. I was told you could help?”

“Sorry, dude. As far as I know, that condition’s for life. Punishment for being on the wrong side of some war and all.” 

Crowley had seen this punch coming from a mile away, but somehow it still managed to hurt him. Funny, how he never stopped hoping things might turn out his way for once. But they never did. He was back to square one.

The gargoyle eyed Crowley. “You are _really_ weird for a demon.”

Crowley considered staying standing for a moment. Then his knees refused, and he dropped to the ground. It was still wet, and soaked through his jeans immediately. Crowley was cold, and out of ideas.

“What’s in it for me, anyway?” The gargoyle asked.

Crowley gave him a withering glare.

“Hey, just asking,” The gargoyle said, “Cause hypothetically, if I did…”

Crowley was on his feet lightning-quick. He wanted to seize the gargoyle by the throat but it was out of his reach, just over one of the arches. Crowley could do nothing but glare at him.

“You want the secret to turning human, huh?”

“Yes!” Crowley yelled, frustration overcoming the fear of discovery.

“Alright, alright, Jesus…” The gargoyle’s indignation was the most grating sound Crowley had ever heard. “You know, you’re really bad at this demon thing. I thought this was going to be more exciting.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, not supposed to give up this information and all. I figure you’d threaten hellfire. But you’re just really pathetic.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, sardonically.

“Yeah, you’re not the first one through here.” Another switch of the track. Crowley was getting whiplash from this conversation. “I’ll tell you what I told them.”

He paused. Crowley gestured, expectantly.

“Russia,” The gargoyle said.

Crowley was ready to punch a man.

“Russia?” He yelled. “Have you seen what’s going on out there? I can’t drive to Russia!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it?” The gargoyle shrugged. “The last guy I know who knows how to do it is in Russia.”

“I have Heaven on my tail,” Crowley snarled, “I have an angel who has been tortured by his peers, the archangel Gabriel apparently wants to re-start the apocalypse and you’re telling me I have to drive to fucking _Russia_?”

He took a deep breath. “I hope your directions can get a little more specific than that.”

“You’re so irritable,” The gargoyle said.

“You’d be as well in my position, and if you were a little closer to the ground, you’d find out just how goddamn irritable I am.”

They stared each other down for a moment. Then Crowley realised that the gargoyle was pouting.

“I’m just lonely, alright?” The gargoyle wailed.

“You’ll wake the monks,” Crowley shushed.

“I don’t care!” The gargoyle continued. “They never talk to me. They’re all asleep when I’m awake.”

“I bet they’re boring, anyway.” Crowley wasn’t good at comforting. He had never learned how to comfort anybody. The best he could do was push someone to online shopping while they were sad, and he doubted that the gargoyle was up for impulse purchasing a hardcover Discworld collection or an inflatable donut.

“And people come through here, and they’re always like ‘ _How do I turn myself human, Fred?_ ’ ‘ _What’s the secret to eternal life, Andreas?_ ’ ‘ _Where is the Holy Grail, Theresa?_ ’.”

“How _do_ I turn myself human?” Crowley asked, then punctuated, “Fred?”

If the gargoyle’s looks could kill, they would have, in that moment.

“There’s a guy in Russia. He lives near a lake.”

The gargoyle explained some directions to Crowley in a voice that sounded partly dejected, partly like he’d already expected it. Crowley took careful note of everything. Towards the end of it, a noise distracted him. He caught sight of a beige coat, hurrying back through the cloister.

Aziraphale.

* * *

**SINT-CRISTOFFELSABDIJ, NEAR GHENT, BELGIUM, THE EARLY DAWN OF DAY EIGHT ON THE ROAD**

Aziraphale was pretending to be asleep when Crowley got back to their room. At least, Crowley figured that was what he was doing.

He hesitated in the door for a moment, one hand on the frame. Wondering if he wanted to have this conversation.

He thought about pizza, about a shared bed, about a million dates that were never called that for fear of everything that hadn’t been said. He thought about Aziraphale’s wonder at the world, and about seeing the world through his eyes. It felt like a memory of a feeling. It didn’t feel real.

He already couldn’t remember what it had felt like to have all of this.

For now, he was still lucky enough to have a part of himself that wanted it back.

“Aziraphale.”

He sat down on the bed next to Aziraphale, reached out a hand and gently touched the angel’s side. Aziraphale stirred, but he didn’t turn.

“Aziraphale, we need to talk.”

“I think I heard enough,” Aziraphale spat. His voice was muffled from where his face was half pressed into a pillow. The tone, however, Crowley knew well. In their six thousand years of acquaintance, Aziraphale had often pretended that everything was fine when, in fact, the opposite was true.

“I’m doing this to keep you safe,” Crowley said.

It hurt to be honest. Vulnerability carried the possibility of being hurt, but to Crowley it always felt as though the punishment had already been dealt, the weakness exploited. He wondered if it were a demon thing, if he was not supposed to trust like he did, to open himself up as though nothing in the world could hurt him if he did.

Aziraphale sat up. His eyes were red and puffy, and Crowley realised with a start he must have been crying. Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and just looked at Crowley, helpless.

“They’ll get me. I’ll slip,” Crowley said.

Still Aziraphale said nothing.

“We can’t run anywhere. This is Gabriel’s show now.”

Still nothing.

“I don’t want to leave you, angel, but right now I’m a danger to you.”

Aziraphale hung his head.

“When did you lose it?”

“Lose what?”

Crowley frowned. He wished he could make Aziraphale see how necessary this was – that he didn’t like it either, but that he’d do it, for half a shot at one good lifetime with Aziraphale.

“Your hope,” Aziraphale said. “That things will turn out okay.”

Crowley cocked his head. “What?”

“You can’t have gone into Heaven like this.” Aziraphale seemed only tangentially aware of him. “Or did you go in just to get yourself killed?”

Crowley sputtered. “I… Aziraphale…”

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s a sin, you know.”

“Now you’re concerned about sin?” Crowley pushed himself off the bed and scoffed. “Only when it’s convenient for you, right?”

Aziraphale sat up. In the moment of silence between them, Crowley could hardly bear the sight of the angel – his feet bare, wearing only his underwear because they hadn’t thought to bring pyjamas before the world ended. He looked so vulnerable and soft, so familiar, that Crowley felt the irresistible impulse to leave.

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice small. “Only when I’m worried about you.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that. He sat down on the bed next to Aziraphale, and joined him in staring at the wall.

“Do you even have a plan? Are we going somewhere?”

Aziraphale didn’t look at Crowley, but the urgency in his voice spoke volumes to his desperation. 

“I have a plan,” Crowley said firmly. 

“I don’t like that one,” Aziraphale said. He sounded petulant, like he had a hundred times when he hadn’t wanted things to change. Crowley wished Aziraphale would stop reminding him why he loved him so much. That would make the whole thing easier and so, so much harder.

He reached out tentatively. Put a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. Allowed his thumb to stroke lightly where Aziraphale’s curls tapered out. 

Aziraphale turned to him. 

“You’re a bastard.”

“Isn’t that why you love me?” Crowley said, teasing like he used to and meaning none of it. He didn’t want to feel anything. His heart was too raw for that.

He kissed Aziraphale.

Aziraphale made a surprised noise, and Crowley - worried that he’d overstepped - pulled back immediately. Aziraphale hauled him back in.

The small part of Crowley’s brain that was not absolutely engrossed in the kiss wondered if this was a particularly heinous sin, for an angel to kiss a demon in a monastery. On the one hand, it seemed a very specific situation, too specific to put in writing perhaps. On the other hand, upstairs loved their elaborate rules. 

Aziraphale clutched at Crowley like he was afraid of losing him. Which, considering the situation, he very likely was. He had his hands fisted in Crowley’s lapels, and Crowley gently wound his own around Aziraphale’s wrist to try and relax the desperate grasp the angel had on him. Aziraphale kept holding on.

Crowley moved one hand, gingerly cupped the angel’s cheek and let a single finger sweep across it. Six thousand years of longing could not be sated by the mere decades he’d gotten to spend doing this, and now he was facing down an even shorter line of decades before everything came to a full stop. It would have to be enough. But he’d savour this.

He licked into Aziraphale’s mouth hungrily, always pushing the boundary, searching for more, and Aziraphale, for all the anger he had espoused, followed where Crowley led. 

The angel always did protest too much.

Crowley sank his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, tilted his head back, and kissed Aziraphale like he was starving. Maybe he was. He hadn’t eaten in a while, couldn’t remember when the last time had been at least. And to his surprise, Aziraphale was right there with him again, tugging Crowley closer. 

It knocked Crowley off his axis. The power of desperation that had driven him the last week collided head-on with Aziraphale, changed his trajectory. He was left hurtling into space. 

The narrow cot wasn’t made for two. It didn’t matter so much when Crowley fitted himself atop Aziraphale as Aziraphale laid back. They were familiar with each other, had moved like this a thousand times since finding that doing so wasn’t a sin, and it came easy to them even now, when everything had changed again. 

It was cold in the monastery. Crowley couldn’t tell if it was the lack of heaters or the desolation outside. He pulled a blanket over them after undressing, and they stayed pressed close together, as though that could bridge the gulf that had opened between them. 

Aziraphale, face buried in Crowley’s neck, whispered: “I love you.”

Crowley pressed his eyes tightly together. They were burning with tears he didn’t want to cry. And still they held each other close.

“I love you.”

* * *

Their morning was quiet. They loaded up their car, and Aziraphale didn’t ask Crowley about his plan, and then they thanked Broer Benedictus, who expressed concern that they were determined to go back outside again so soon. Or at least that was what Crowley figured. Aziraphale didn’t translate their conversation.

With all his cards now on the table, Crowley felt strangely free. Even without GPS, he should manage the three days’ drive east to Russia, and once they made it to St. Petersburg, the directions of the gargoyle should be enough to guide them the rest of the way. A strange optimism had seized hold of him, and he hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t notice.

It would only aggravate the angel more.

The rain had abated, but none of the destruction had. Trees were uprooted, fields flooded, whole houses carried away by the torrential waters that had plagued them yesterday. Crowley almost preferred it if the rain had continued. Like this, he was left wondering what was next on Gabriel’s agenda.

Still, in spite of everything, people seemed determined to live their lives. With the continent desolate, they had convinced themselves it was just a freak weather event. With satellites down, and phones not working, some people still opened their shops. Crowley took the opportunity to stock up on supplies. It filled him with a grim satisfaction to see the canned goods aisles weren’t quite as well stocked as they might have been under normal circumstances. Someone out there had a brain.

As the evening approached and they were over halfway through Poland, Aziraphale kept looking over at him more and more.

“We should find a place to stop,” he suggested when the sun first hit the roof of a building.

Crowley had a feeling he didn’t mean the side of the road, and that he was going to feel stupid for suggesting it.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Do you think you can find another monastery?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at their surroundings, the highway, the abandoned cars, the farms off to the side, the trees and the evidence of the apocalypse.

“Deeply Catholic country like this? I’m surprised we haven’t run into one already.”

In the end, it took a bit of Aziraphale’s angelic senses as well as Crowley’s ability to react quickly when Aziraphale yelled to _‘Take the exit here!’_ at the last minute for them to make it to a little monastery, nestled off to the side of a town some three or four kilometres off, by a little stream and forest. Crowley hated himself for checking that the water hadn’t turned blood red or something.

Aziraphale spoke Polish as well as he spoke Dutch – miraculously unaccented – and the brother who welcomed them seemed taken by Aziraphale, unwashed and tired-looking though he was. He did not give Crowley the same enthusiastic smile, and Crowley made a face behind his back.

The next day they drove up through the Baltics, and Crowley kept glancing up at the sky as though the next flood could begin at any moment.

The country here was different from where they had been before – it was all forests and flat land, but the forest was pine and the flatness of the land seemed like an invitation for the sea to come and flood it. People here seemed more suspicious of the weather that wreaked its destruction upon them – when they passed through villages, Crowley saw only closed doors or wary looks levered their way, and the shops were all closed.

They were navigating by the road signs that were still up and consulting Aziraphale’s angelic senses every couple of hours or so for a sense of whether they were still heading in the right direction. That was why Crowley didn’t immediately get suspicious when Aziraphale started directing him – gently, while still going North – to head West more and more.

“Would you pull over here?”

Crowley was surprised at the request. Aziraphale hadn’t said much to him, and he feared that Aziraphale was mad at him now – a temporary inconvenience, he’d understand eventually, but regrettable, nevertheless. But Aziraphale just smiled at him, pleasant as anything, and Crowley was too relieved to question it.

Crowley stopped the car on the shoulder of a dirt road. Trees lined it on both sides, windswept dark green pines. When Aziraphale opened the door, Crowley heard the roaring of the wind.

“Are you coming?” Aziraphale asked.

“Coming where?”

Crowley kept both hands on the steering wheel as if the Ford could give him answers. The car was safe. Out there, things were bad.

“Just a couple of metres that way.”

Now Crowley was getting suspicious. He frowned. Aziraphale was smiling, and he hadn’t smiled in days, much less looking like he meant it. It intrigued Crowley enough to get out of the car.

Aziraphale led him down a small footpath between the pine trees. The wind tore at Crowley’s clothes and reminded him that he probably should have picked up a jacket before heading to Russia. The scent of the pines was so strong that the air tasted faintly of room freshener, fragrant and herbal.

They crested a small hill and Crowley realised two things: that the roaring he’d been hearing wasn’t the wind, and that his angel GPS had been lying to him.

“Why are we at the sea?”

As far as Crowley was concerned, the Baltic was just the ugly little brother of the North Sea, and that was saying something, considering the North Sea wasn’t very pretty in the first place. The last time he’d been here, he’d taken a wrong turn after a temptation, and he’d vowed not to go back since then. It was too cold, too lonely up here.

Aziraphale stopped at the top of the hill and looked out. The sea was steel grey and flat, though Crowley knew its flatness was an illusion, that the waves were simply too far away for him to see. The sky was very nearly the same colour, a shade lighter but still grey, broken up by the occasionally whiter wisp of cloud. They seemed drained of colour as well, the sand leaning towards ashen more than the saffron-yellow of other beaches, and it gave the whole scene an arid quality, like an old photograph.

Aziraphale sighed deeply.

“This is what we saved.”

He pointed first towards the water, then half turned with both his arms outstretched as though trying to encompass the entire scene. The Baltic, Denmark on the other side of it somewhere, Russia ahead of them on their path, the continent and all the lands beyond it. And this small beach also, insignificant except for the fact that it was the one that they were standing on.

“This is what we’re going to save again.”

Crowley turned up the collar of his jacket. The wind was insidious. It found its way through every crack.

“Sure, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale dropped his arms. He looked at Crowley, as though searching for something he knew he had already lost.

“You used to see things the way I see them.”

“Still do,” Crowley said. He did: Here was the beach, trivial except it was the result of divine inspiration and therefore precious. Here was something that bore the sign of Her love more surely than anything in Heaven ever had. And Crowley was going to love it, right up until the point where he was going to give up any chance of seeing it ever again, because there was something else that bore the sign of Her love, and that he loved even more.

Crowley stepped closer to the angel. Held out his hands, a tentative gesture, waiting if Aziraphale would offer his own.

Reluctantly, he did.

“We shouldn’t linger,” Crowley said.

They drove on.

* * *

They crossed over into Russia. Night fell, and still Crowley felt like they should push on a couple more hours. Aziraphale was starting to glance at him again, concern and disapproval a curious mix on his face. Not that Crowley was looking at him a lot.

His eyes were fixed on the road where it was revealed in the cone of the Ford’s headlights.

The clock ticked past ten, then past eleven. Crowley found exhaustion a curious thing, the way it made his body feel leaden and his mind a strange shade of sharp, the way it highlighted certain sensations while dampening others.

One thing it didn’t do was improve his reaction time, apparently.

“Watch out!”

Aziraphale was quicker. He still napped for stretches of twenty or thirty minutes at a time, nowhere near restful but still much-needed apparently. The car in front of them had swerved and was now slowing down, and Crowley and Aziraphale and the Ford were headed for a head-on collision with it. They hadn’t seen anybody run out of gas for a while, which was probably why Crowley hadn’t expected it.

He hit the brakes, hard.

Aziraphale evidently decided that wasn’t enough.

The car came to a stop abruptly, the deceleration enough to kill, but luckily Aziraphale’s forethought extended to the fact that Crowley wasn’t able to perform miracles right now, or Crowley would have ended up a smear on the windshield. It was only the absolute surprise of the manoeuvre that had saved him from performing one to save himself.

When Crowley was in possession of all his senses again, he found that they had stopped just a metre shy of the other car.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale, breathing heavily. He was about to say something to thank him when the door of the other car flew open with a bang.

No, not _flew open_ – flew off. As if an explosion inside had propelled the door outward it flew away from the car, coming to a skidding halt some ten metres away. 

From the inside of the car, figures stepped out, one, then two, then three… oh _no_.

Crowley hastily unbuckled his seat belt. His hands were shaking, it was hard to get the damn thing to work. He stumbled out of his seat and onto the road, tripping in a desperate effort to put himself between the figures and his car. Between the figures and Aziraphale. Wind tore at his jacket. He could dimly hear Aziraphale speaking and just waved his hand at him to stay down. Then he turned towards the other car.

Out of the car stepped four demons, eyes black and bodies ill-proportioned. Crowley wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he knew they were going to get to Aziraphale over his dead body. A very likely outcome, sadly.

“Crowley,” said the first one, wearing a three-piece suit, scales embedded in the side of his cheek.

“How nice to see you,” said the second one, a dark gothic dress stained with slime.

“Not easy to get a hold of you,” added the third, moving limbs that were too long in an admonishing gesture.

The fourth – broad-shouldered, with a reptilian beard around his throat – hung back, miming the stoic enforcer.

“You could have called,” Crowley said lamely. It was hard faking bravado when he saw no way out. Despite what everybody thought, he wasn’t the best liar. He had just been cursed with a severe case of overconfidence.

“Relax,” said the first one.

“We just want to talk,” said the second one.

Crowley was not reassured. He hoped Aziraphale had enough good sense to stay in the car. He didn’t dare turning around to check.

“Yeah?” Crowley said, “Okay then, let’s talk.”

His palms were sweating. Maybe he _should_ perform a miracle to alert Heaven to their position. It’d at least get everybody fighting, give them a chance to slip away… but the risk was too great. He’d take the certainty of four demons over the uncertainty of four demons and God knows exactly how many angels any day – or at least for now.

“It’s time to come home, Crowley,” said the third demon.

“You’ve had your fun playing around in this dump, but the real fight’s about to start,” said the first one.

“You should be with your family in times like these,” the second one added.

“What are you on about?”

Crowley wanted to feign ignorance, but realisation settled over him like a heavy coat. It weighed on his shoulders. It wasn’t just Gabriel and whatever nutjobs he’d managed to get on his side in Heaven – these demons knew about Armageddon as well, or they’d figured it out from context clues. Wasn’t like it was much of a secret now.

He didn’t like the way the fourth demon with the broad shoulders was eyeing the car behind Crowley. He also didn’t like how empty and open the highway was.

The first demon – the one with the scales and the suit – gave Crowley a look that managed to be both predatory and patronizing.

“The fight is starting. We’re going to bring about Armageddon, whether or not the others want it. And we’re going to win.”

The gothic-dress demon smiled. “Don’t you want to be on the winning team, Crowley?”

Crowley couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. The demons didn’t look like they got the joke.

He knew he should play nice. Play nice and maybe they’d only kill him and leave Aziraphale alone. The problem was, Crowley was getting angry now. And anger and impulse control didn’t mix well.

“You think you’re going to win this thing? Against Heaven?” He snorted. “You’d have to get your heads out of your asses first.”

The fourth demon made a step forward, but he was stopped by his long-limbed companion, demon number three, who shot him a warning glance. That was interesting.

“You’ve always been very funny, Crowley,” the first demon said, “You’re lucky we’ve orders to leave you alive.”

He turned to his companions. “Let’s go.”

Crowley could only stand there as they filed back into the car with the missing door. His whole body was tense, coiled, waiting for them to turn back and finish him – but they didn’t. They’d had their chance, had him cornered and defenceless, but hadn’t finished him.

Crowley was afraid of what that meant for the things that were still coming their way. He scrambled back into the car, eyes wide and hands shaking. Aziraphale looked at him with the same wide eyes. Crowley reached for him, or maybe Aziraphale reached out first, hands on coat lapels and jackets, pulling each other in. Crowley was crying, maybe Aziraphale was, too. The smell of the angel was musty, bookish and comforting. Crowley never wanted to let go.

He did. They drove on.

* * *

**ON THE ROAD TO ST. PETERSBURG, DAY 10 ON THE ROAD**

The sign said they were eighty kilometres away from St. Petersburg. Crowley had to take it on faith (in Aziraphale), since he could no longer read Cyrillic.

They had slept fitfully in the back of the car, both of them waking and falling back asleep intermittently, clinging to each other only making it more restless. They couldn’t speak about it, but Crowley still felt that he needed Aziraphale like air, except he didn’t need air, but he still needed the angel and that only made him more afraid for a time when Heaven would come and take him away again. He knew, without a doubt, he wouldn’t survive the second time.

Back on the road, Crowley had been bleary-eyed and hungry, Aziraphale had been pale and silent.

Crowley was on edge since the events of last night. Which meant that this time, when they were intercepted in the middle of the road, he was more prepared for it.

They were standing where no one had stood just a second before – a ragtag group of figures, remarkable only for their sudden appearance, looking like a London middle school class on a field trip. Crowley slammed on the brakes, this time with enough foresight to bring the car to a stop in a reasonable manner. He looked over at Aziraphale.

“They keep finding us,” Aziraphale said.

“It wasn’t me.”

Crowley wished he could disappear them. He fiddled with the stick shift, wishing he could snap his fingers and pull them away from this place, onto some remote island or among the stars. But there was no running from the people they were running from.

“I know,” Aziraphale said.

“Let’s see what they want,” Crowley sighed.

He recognised Uriel right off the bat. The angel with the short-cropped afro was standing front and centre in her pantsuit, arms crossed, and legs spread wide in a business-version of a Wonder Woman pose. Next to her – and Crowley flinched when he recognised her – was Michael, looking even less happy than the last time Crowley had seen her, which must have been some time around the height of the first war.

Altogether there were maybe about seven angels. Then one of the back row angels stepped aside, and Crowley saw something that didn’t fit.

“That’s a demon,” he said.

“People normally say _Hello_ first, or so I’ve heard.”

Michael sounded cross. As Crowley and Aziraphale approached, she half turned to Uriel and gave her a look that seemed to communicate something unspoken between them. Uriel simply glared back, pointedly.

“Aziraphale. Crowley.”

Uriel had always been the sort of talker who was selected when the more verbose angels were otherwise tied up. She looked as uncomfortable in front of a crowd as Aziraphale when faced with customers willing to buy something at his shop. It didn’t come naturally to her. But she seemed determined to try.

“Don’t be afraid. We come in peace.”

Crowley snorted. “Heh, I remember that speech.”

Aziraphale shushed him. Crowley rolled his eyes.

Both Uriel and Michael raised their hands in a placating gesture, and the younger angels followed suit. So, to Crowley’s surprise, did the demons.

“We’ve been trying to find you for a couple of days now. Gabriel is furious because you’ve eluded him so far, but we had some help he doesn’t yet have.”

Uriel sounded like she was reading a practised speech. Michael, strangely enough, was watching her and not the rogue demon and angel pair in front of her. At least Crowley found it strange enough to notice.

Uriel gestured to the two demons behind her. Crowley didn’t recognise them, which wasn’t strange because he must have skipped the last 1,997 office Christmas parties. They eyed him with the same wary eyes.

“Understand,” Uriel began, “when Gabriel and Beelzebub realise they have more in common than they think they do on this, it won’t be long before they find you. And then you’ll be out of time.”

“Then why stop us?” Crowley asked. “Thanks for the warning, but I know we’re on a hard deadline here. Let us go, and we can get on.”

“Let her speak.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale stepped forward a bit. He was still pale, his gait still insecure and shaky, but he looked at Uriel, searching her face for something. As though noticing him for the first time, Uriel’s face softened.

“I told you, Michael,” she said, pointing to Aziraphale. Michael nodded, tight-lipped, and Crowley wondered if there was something about Aziraphale’s recovery or lack thereof he could not see because he had to blind and deafen himself.

Uriel fortified herself. “We think there’s a way to fix this.”

Crowley hated the hopeful expression he saw on Aziraphale’s face. Hated it because it had to be false. None of their luck had held so far.

It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale might blame himself for what had happened.

“We can summon Gabriel,” Uriel explained, “force him to end this. He’s the one who started it, so he must be the one to stop it.”

“Do you really think that will work?” Crowley asked. “Cause last time I checked, you lot were hell-bent on finding out how exactly you could use Aziraphale to kickstart it in the first place.”

“That wasn’t us,” Uriel said, anger on her face now. Michael put a hand on her arm.

“We didn’t know what Gabriel was doing,” Michael said dejectedly, “I didn’t believe Uriel when she told me, at first. We’re out of balance. Ever since the apocalypse didn’t happen. Maybe longer.”

One of the demons in the back spoke up. “Beelzebub is in on it with Gabriel, Crowley. This isn’t right.”

“None of this is,” Crowley shot back, “You shouldn’t even be here. None of you should be here, least of all working together.”

Aziraphale put a hand on his arm. There they stood, Crowley and Uriel enraged, Aziraphale and Michael reminding them to be civil. Crowley hated it when he started finding common ground with the other side. It ruined his aesthetic.

“If you meet us by the Baltic,” Uriel said, voice calm and measured, “We think we have a way of centring all of Gabriel’s destruction there for a short while. That should force him to manifest.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “Then we can kill him.”

Again with the killing. Uriel gave Aziraphale a strange look. She was probably thinking the same thing.

“Then we can force him to end this, yes.”

“Forcing the hand of an archangel,” Crowley said, “That’s bound to go well.”

He looked over at Michael. “Though I think she has experience with that.”

He thought of Father Mihály in Romania. He’d said something about her name being a question, but whenever he saw Michael’s face, all Crowley could think of was the battle cry. Who is like God? It had been reason to cast them all from Heaven for their hubris.

“Come on, Aziraphale, this is a waste of time.”

Crowley turned back to the car.

“What choice do you have but to trust us?” Uriel called.

“Don’t remind me of my lack of choice,” Crowley spun around and hissed, with anger that would have been deadly had he not had to contain it in a human form. Of course he had choice. It was all about choice. Or else it would mean… else it would mean he’d always been heading for that small lake outside St. Petersburg, and that would be the second thing he wouldn’t be able to forgive Her.

“She’s right,” Aziraphale said. He looked at Crowley with pleading eyes, and that was always the problem, wasn’t it, that he couldn’t resist those damned eyes. Not when Aziraphale got like this. “We have to do something about this, Crowley. We can’t run forever.”

Crowley felt like he had a last mile in himself at least, but he wasn’t going to say that, not when Aziraphale looked at the ragtag group of angels and demons with such hope. A terrible thought began to formulate in his mind.

“Give him the coordinates,” he called, gesturing towards Aziraphale, “We’ll meet you on the beach.”

* * *

**THE PASSENGER SEAT, DAY 11 ON THE ROAD**

Aziraphale woke like his consciousness was stretching back into his body slowly. Everything was soft and fuzzy around the edges: the rumbling of the car engine, the warm air blowing softly from the AC, the sound of Crowley’s breathing, barely audible over the ambient noise. It all formed a melody that had become familiar to him in the last couple of days, that gave him solace even when nothing much else did: Not the senseless destruction he’d caused, nor the path they were taking to escape it. Not the angels on their tail, nor Crowley’s strange distance.

The car bounced softly over an uneven road. The shaking rocked Aziraphale, kept him lulled in the strange place between sleep and wakefulness, where things real and things dreamed mingled and it didn’t much matter which was which.

He felt safer than he’d had in days, though it seemed strange that he should feel relief at the prospect of taking a life. It wasn’t very angelic.

The thought of Gabriel rattled the comfort of his half-sleep, half-waking state. It was strange – he didn’t feel vengeful, wasn’t sure that was an emotion that he was capable of, but he was enraged at the insolence of Gabriel. Being offered an opportunity to put him back in his place seemed almost too close to divine justice.

At least their encounter with Uriel and Michael had offered a way out of Crowley’s ridiculous plan to turn himself human in some grand, self-sacrificing gesture.

He opened his eyes when the car came to a stop.

They were parked by the side of the road that ran out about ten metres ahead of them. Where the dirt path stopped, the water began.

It was foggy, the sky the strange kind of grey that looked almost bleached. Coastal, Aziraphale thought and wished he were outside the car so he could take a deep breath. The water was lapping slowly on the shore.

Crowley turned off the engine.

“Show time,” he muttered, and Aziraphale could tell it wasn’t directed at him when he made an inquiring noise and Crowley looked surprised that he’d heard.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” He said.

He looked pale to Aziraphale, and thinner, too. He hadn’t been sleeping much, had been eating more irregularly, and the stress certainly didn’t do much to help with that. Aziraphale longed for Crowley to be able to enjoy a good night’s sleep again, in the most lavish bed either of them could imagine but knew it wouldn’t happen for a while at least.

Not before they killed Gabriel.

Crowley opened the door like he needed to convince himself it was something he wanted to do. Aziraphale followed, nervous in the good and the bad way.

The smell hit both of them at the same time.

Aziraphale had never found cause to be at a gas station, not even for a miracle. There might have been the occasional temptation, but overall, for their ubiquity, gas stations seemed fairly untouched by both Heavenly and Hellish influences. Either way, that explained why he didn’t recognise the smell, though most everybody else would have – sharp and eye-watering, the kind of smell that was so powerful it hit the back of the mouth and had a taste, too.

“That’s Diesel,” Crowley said.

“That’s what?”

“Diesel, angel, they put it in cars.” Crowley sniffed the air. “It’s coming from the water.”

They approached the waterline, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but marvel at how different beaches looked up here. The soft, grassy earth reached almost all the way to the water, where small pebbles dotted the ground. The trees huddled closely to the water as well. In the distance, through the fog, Aziraphale could make out the shape of a wooden cabin.

Crowley knelt down and stretched out a hand, holding it just above the surface of the water that shimmered with an oily sheen. Aziraphale wanted to ask him how it looked but was distracted by a sound just down the beach. He went to investigate.

The swan was dying when he got to it.

It seemed strangely calm in its struggles, except for its screaming, which was near deafening up close. Strange to think that people imagined a swan song as a thing of beauty. The poor thing was simply terrified of dying.

Its feathers were matted with the same oily substance that Crowley was examining down the beach. Aziraphale could see the breastbone of the bird peeking out between the feathers, sharp and a little bloody where the bird had dragged itself to shore. It was malnourished, cold, and at the end of its energy reserves. In short – it was dying.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, Aziraphale thought. Ever since humans had started extracting fossil fuels from the ground, those fuels had found a way to leak into bodies of water. The _Amoco Cadiz_ in the Channel. The _Tricolor_ , twenty-four years later. The Nowruz Oil field. Deepwater Horizon. He’d been present for some of those, both because they were historical events and because, sometimes, Heaven decided a miracle was in order.

Or Hell decided the opposite was needed.

This, compared to the destruction he’d seen, was minor, as far as he knew. And yet the swan upset him.

He knelt down, just as Crowley had done before, and extended a hand to touch the frightened creature. Its feathers felt sticky under his fingers.

“Hey there.” He kept his voice low, the smile on his face pleasant, and his aura radiating serenity. “Calm down now. That’s it. Calm down.”

He glanced off to the side, but Crowley was still busy inspecting the shoreline. For some reason, Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to see him talking to a bird.

The miracle poured forth freely, effortlessly. It still felt wrong, felt perhaps the slightest bit self-indulgent, but Aziraphale had learned to trust his instincts over the last decades. The voice that Heaven had instilled in his head, that what was right could only be dictated by policy, he had learned to silence that voice. He recognised it, and he chose to ignore it.

The bird perked up with an inquisitive honk, at which point Crowley took an interest in Aziraphale’s whereabouts again. The bird ruffled his feathers and made an offended noise in the direction of Aziraphale, then turned and began wading back into the water.

“No, wait!”

Aziraphale went to grab the swan, and the bird broke out into a sprint. Aziraphale was left with some feathers in his hands – clean, beautiful feathers – and the vision of the bird disappearing with long strides and flapping wings, into the same Diesel-infested waters Aziraphale had just saved it from.

“Why’d you do that?” Crowley asked. “He was probably already oiled. No point in keeping him out of the water. That’s as good as a death sentence to them, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale started after the swan, watched it disappear.

“I just wanted to do… something.”

Crowley lifted a hand, hesitated for a moment, then gently touched Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I understand.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley was wearing his glasses, and it was always hard to tell when he was wearing his glasses, but Aziraphale thought he looked sad underneath the dark lenses – sad, or remorseful.

“Come on,” Crowley said, “Let’s go.”

He walked past Aziraphale, in the direction of the little hut. Aziraphale followed, after one last glance out over the water. The swan was nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale followed.

As they walked along the shoreline, there were more dead birds: swans, ducks, some moorhens. Some were still alive, others had recently perished, a few had been dead for days. It was plain from the scale of the catastrophe that it was somehow linked to the wider destruction Aziraphale and Crowley had witnessed on their way across the continent. The timeline fit.

“Where are the others?” Aziraphale asked as he struggled to catch up with Crowley. The dead birds sat uneasy with him. Maybe because he could at least follow Gabriel’s logic in targeting humans, but animals? There was no reason in that. He wanted to see Uriel again, or Michael, to see what they’d make of this.

Crowley made a noise that could mean anything, and usually meant he was lost too deep in thought to give an answer. Aziraphale looked again at the shoreline.

“Why are these all freshwater birds?”

Again, the noise. Aziraphale began to suspect it wasn’t quite as innocent as he’d thought.

“The swans. They’re not supposed to be by the seaside, are they? They usually live on lakes.”

“Do they? I hadn’t noticed.”

Crowley had never been an exceptional liar. Or maybe Aziraphale had always been good at seeing through him. Crowley was hiding something.

Aziraphale quickened his step.

“Where are we, Crowley?”

“Angel, listen…”

Crowley set out for an explanation, then seemed to decide the path was too long to take.

“We’re in Russia.”

Aziraphale did then what he should have done the minute he woke up – he checked their position.

When he came back from it, Crowley was staring at him.

“Sorry.”

“We’re nowhere near the coordinates Uriel gave us!”

Aziraphale felt like a pit had opened up beneath his feet and he was just waiting for the inevitable fall, like a cartoon character suspended in mid-air. The implications were there, just waiting for him to pull at the threads one by one and watch them unravel.

Crowley had lied to him.

They weren’t where Uriel had said to meet them.

Crowley had lied about agreeing to their plan.

Crowley was still going to go through with his plan.

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, and Crowley met his eye.

“Yeah,” he said.

* * *

**LAKE тупик, DAY 11 ON THE ROAD**

The hut was smaller up close. Constructed out of large logs, solid but stocky, it seemed homely and impregnable at the same time – a home by virtue of being able to keep out the bad things. Crowley could appreciate that.

The man who opened the door to them introduced himself as Ilja Sorokin. He was a short, square man, reminiscent of his house. His most notable characteristic was his short, sprouting, beard, and his round face beset by a constant scowl. He had hair that was thinning both on top and at the front. To compromise, he kept it short-cropped. Every part of his body seemed massive – not large, but like it had a lot of mass, like everything about him was twice as heavy, twice as solid.

Crowley was surprised to see the wife.

The hut seemed like the place for a lonely sage, and Ilja seemed like the kind of man who would live alone, but no – bustling around the house, feeding the chickens out back, scolding the dog in front of the fireplace, and smiling at the visitors, was a woman.

Like Ilja, she looked to be middle-aged morphing into simply _aged_. Her hair was a bob of black curls shot through with grey that bounced about as she moved. She wore a simple woolen dress that had been treated with a beautiful natural dye. Around her neck hung a small necklace with a cross, understated and silver.

She immediately latched onto Aziraphale, like every goddamn contact on their journey had. But this time, Crowley found himself somewhat glad to see Aziraphale be led away – he’d fucked up, again. And Crowley didn’t know how many strikes he had left before he was out in this game.

Ilja took Crowley out to a bench by the lake. The smell was overpowering here – burning, chemical. Every small wave that lapped against the shore carried more of the stuff, shiny and volatile. A little further, two birds were preening, becoming sicker every time they picked at their feathers.

“ _Can_ you do it?”

The reasons he had for seeking out Ilja had been the first thing out of his mouth when Ilja had opened the door. No need to pretend in front of Aziraphale anymore. Ilja had refused to answer then, but Crowley was a man driven now.

He kept his hands folded in his lap. He felt like they might flutter away otherwise.

Ilja sighed.

“Dangerous question you come here for.”

“I’m determined,” Crowley said. He’d come this far. He’d crossed the whole damn continent.

Again, Ilja sighed.

“Forty years I’ve had my Elena,” he said, “When I say it like that, it sounds like forever. A decent human lifespan. But it’s so short.”

There was something about the man that struck Crowley near speechless – no, it was this whole place, like it was filled with his essence. The whole place, the house and even the lake, had the air of a holy site. Which meant…

“You or her?” He asked.

The chills creeping along his spine definitely didn’t have anything to do with the wind coming in off the lake.

“Me,” Ilja said.

“You turned yourself human for her. For love.”

Ilja nodded. Crowley thought back to the gargoyle. It had its own sense of humour, that was for sure.

“What were you? Before?”

Crowley couldn’t help the morbid fascination that overcame him. He was looking at his own future. He would age like that. His face would wrinkle, his belly grow, provided he could survive all of this.

“That must seem an easy question from your vantage point, hm?”

Ilja’s face had a way of transforming itself from a surprised look of raised eyebrows into a scowl in a matter of seconds.

“Humans would have called me an angel, back in the day.”

Crowley closed his eyes, released a breath. He let it all wash over him for a moment, the fear and the anger and the resignation. He couldn’t even muster the energy to yell at God anymore. He knew She was listening, but Her disinterest was palpable.

She’d let this happen.

Crowley had had enough.

“Did you ever regret it?” He asked Ilja.

Ilja laughed again. Crowley had never, in his entire existence, felt too young to understand a joke – until Ilja had laughed at him like that the first time.

“Regret is for the humans, isn’t it?”

Crowley kept his mouth shut, thinking he’d regretted quite a lot in his long and arduous life.

Ilja dug around his coat pockets, pulled out a cigarette. Of course he smoked. Got it to light, despite the wind, too.

“No. I did not. Sometimes, maybe, little bit. We get weak. But I don’t count that.”

Crowley breathed out again.

“Tomorrow,” Ilja said, “You sleep a night, tomorrow we talk.”

* * *

**THE KITCHEN, DAY 11 ON THE ROAD**

She was a beautiful woman, Yana. Aziraphale saw the same kind of beauty in her that he saw in the plants she showed him when she took him behind the house, zucchinis and lettuce, pumpkins and potatoes.

“Do you get lonely out here?” He asked her after she’d made him tea and introduced the chickens by name. He liked his bookshop, but he also liked to know London kept bustling around it, that there were restaurants and people and Crowley.

Oh yes, he’d be quite lonely without Crowley.

Yana frowned. “Alone. Not lonely. We like it out here.”

He and Crowley should have had a hut like this, Aziraphale thought. Maybe they still could, though the path Crowley persisted on made it more unlikely by the day.

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea. It tasted bitter, like it had steeped too long, and there was no milk to cut it.

“Your friend came here with the same question Iljuscha had, a long time ago,” Yana observed, “but somehow I have a feeling you’re not happy about it.”

Aziraphale bit down on the sarcastic response that came to mind. He shook his head.

“Why?” Yana asked. “He is taking a great risk for you, isn’t he? Just to be with you?”

Aziraphale was usually a bit dense dealing with humans, which was why it dawned on him so slowly.

“I’m an angel,” he said when he realised. That stunned Yana.

“But… why…?”

Aziraphale didn’t say that he’d been asking himself the same question ever since the monastery. Crowley wasn’t himself, that was the only explanation he’d come up with – Crowley was still in shock, stunned to the bone, survival mode so deep that even Aziraphale couldn’t call him from it. It spoke to how badly Crowley had been treated over the course of his existence that he got like that sometimes. Aziraphale had seen it before.

Aziraphale never wanted to see it again.

“We’re being tracked by angels. They can find him every time he uses a miracle. Someone suggested to him the most reasonable solution to this is to become human.”

Yana hummed – her voice deep and thoughtful. She was a listener, Aziraphale could tell.

“And you do not agree?”

“I think there are other ways! We can still fix this! Everything that’s happened –“ He pointed around them, to the destruction that encircled the little hut and the whole continent. “–there must be a way to reverse it!”

Yana nodded, her green eyes fixed on him.

“I just can’t make him see it.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. He took another sip of tea, which was still bitter and not offering any of the comfort he would normally take from a good cup. Everything was out of order, turned upside down and inside out.

Yana, after a moment of careful consideration, put a hand on his arm. “I have faith you’ll find a way.”

* * *

**STILL BY THE LAKESIDE, DAY 12**

Crowley found Ilja by the water just after sunrise, wearing rubber boots and a Tyvek suit, and carrying a shovel and a bucket. He was mucking up the parts of the beach worst affected by the oil, then dumping the bucket in a trailer at the end of his jeep when it was full. He looked unhurried, almost peaceful. Crowley found himself hesitant to disturb him.

But time wasn’t on his side.

“Can you show me now?”

Ilja stopped slowly, an old man set in his tracks and movements that couldn’t be easily redirected anymore. He set down his shovel, leaned on it with his arms crossed.

“Are you sure about this, boy?”

Crowley hadn’t slept well. He realised this when the anger at being called _boy_ made him almost forget himself, made him want to reach for his essence and punish Ilja. He came down slowly from the red hot flare of it, and it scared him.

“I’m sure,” he said, a little breathless.

Ilja nodded. “You know this can’t be reversed.”

“I know,” Crowley said.

“It binds you to this corporation permanently,” Ilja said.

“I _know_ ,” Crowley hissed, impatience behind every syllable.

Ilja fixated a spot behind Crowley.

“Hello there!”

Crowley turned, and saw Aziraphale step up to them, wearing a pair of rubber boots instead of his regular dress shoes. Coming to think of it, it was probably a good idea. Crowley’s leather shoes were all but ruined by the combination of diesel and sand.

“Just popping out to see how you too are getting on!” Aziraphale said, and he sounded far too chipper for someone who’d been betrayed by his partner, his lover, his significant other not twenty-four hours earlier. Crowley didn’t trust it. He knew Aziraphale too well for that.

“I’m just taking bites out of this cookie, one bucket at a time,” Ilja laughed, “Eventually, I’ll have it clean.”

Aziraphale caught up to them, nodded.

“Wonderful,” he said, and then – “I hear you’re planning on performing a service for my friend. I’d like to be included in that, if I could.”

“Pardon?” Crowley said.

“If you insist on turning yourself human,” Aziraphale said, the expression on his face a mixture of fondness and mischief that Crowley found hard to read, “then I will turn myself human with you.”

“Pardon?” Crowley reiterated, like the needle on his record had gotten stuck. It sure felt that way. “You can’t.”

“Don’t be silly, of course I can. Ilja here is living proof.”

Crowley felt the anger again. Maybe it was his demonic essence, finally bubbling to the top after being suppressed for nearly two weeks. He did feel like his lid was about to blow off.

“I’m only doing this for you. We’re stuck in this mess because of me, but I will make sure you get out, and then you’ll be _safe_ …”

“Safety is such a complex concept, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his tone patronizing. He probably didn’t realise how thin the thread by which Crowley was holding on was.

A stabbing pain shot through Crowley’s neck, and he realised he was gritting his teeth. His jaw ached. He slowly worked on unclenching his teeth again.

“Aziraphale…”

Under Aziraphale’s smile was something harder, Crowley suddenly realised. Something determined. Something angry.

“You get to make this decision, but I don’t, is that it?” He asked.

Crowley caught Ilja’s eye, embarrassed. “No!”

“Then what precisely is the problem?”

Six thousand years he’d kept the goddamn angel safe. More than six thousand years. Through his every bad idea, each impulsive decision. Crowley had been his bloody guardian angel, had cared even though he was forbidden from doing so. He’d done it by being more measured, more careful than Aziraphale, who tended to work by emotions and faith more than Crowley generally found was good. Aziraphale was stubborn, Aziraphale stuck to methods he thought tried and tested because they provided safety.

This was wholly uncharacteristic for him.

“I can’t let you do this. You’d die.”

“So will you, if you go through with this,” Aziraphale said more softly.

“I have a giant target on my back,” Crowley said, no – pleaded. “Please, angel, I want to be with you for as long as I can, but as long as I am like this, I am a danger to you. Please, let me do this.”

“You’ve always been stubborn,” Aziraphale said, stepping up to Crowley and gently cupping his face. “You rush headlong into things without considering other options. You think your first thought is always your best thought.”

“We’re out of options,” Crowley hissed. He wanted to pull away, to escape the blue of Aziraphale’s eyes, the first blue he’d ever really known. It would kill him to pull away.

“Do you really think so?” Aziraphale asked, quiet, entreating. Not a challenge but an honest question.

Crowley considered the bottomless pit of fear that was his stomach. It was his never ending well of nightmares.

“Gabriel is every man who’s ever waged a war in the name of God, but worse. He’s the crusader incarnate. He doesn’t see what you see when you look at Her creation. He just sees the way he thinks things should be, and he finds this world wanting.” Crowley sighed. “We can’t win against that kind of zeal.”

Aziraphale looked at him, dejected. “We have to try.”

“I am tired of trying,” Crowley said.

“Me too,” Aziraphale confessed. “But if there’s a chance, we have an obligation to take it.”

Not a lack of choice. An obligation.

Crowley closed his eyes, turned his face into Aziraphale’s hand and breathed in the smell. His comfort. His home.

“Won’t you let me do this? For you?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, his voice iron and unshakeable faith and the stuff that made diamonds. “While there is a chance we can both walk away from this, I won’t. I can’t.”

Crowley nodded, eyes still closed. He felt, distinctly, that if he looked at Aziraphale now, he might cry. He turned towards Ilja instead, who was still leaning on his shovel, watching the scene with an expression that was impossible to decipher.

“You heard him.”

“I did,” Ilja agreed. “It’s better, trust me.”

Crowley wanted to say something nasty about how it wasn’t better, and about how they’d all die in the next twenty-four hours like some cheap remake of _The Day After Tomorrow_ , but his time living with Aziraphale had taught him better. He swallowed the bile, turned without looking at Aziraphale, and walked to their car.

* * *

The drive back felt like reverse-engineering their way across the continent, like they were unspooling time, winding back the cassette-tape. They crossed back over the Russian border into Latvia, and Crowley went from manic into desperate. The closer they got to Uriel, Michael, and whatever crazy plan they had come up with, the more Crowley remembered why he’d thought it was a bad idea.

He didn’t stop for the full nine hours. His eyes felt sandy, when he first started getting tired. Then they started burning. His back hurt, his shoulders ached from how tightly he was clutching the wheel. From time to time he would look over at Aziraphale, and when Aziraphale caught his eye, he gave Crowley a grateful, teary smile.

Those were the moments that almost made Crowley turn around, when Aziraphale didn’t look like he meant it.

Crowley fiddled with the knob of the car’s stereo. He wasn’t looking for a station so much as he was looking for something to do with his hands as the world rushed past them. Then he switched it on, anyway, and a dark voice came out of the speaker, accompanied by the slow strumming of a guitar.

_Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose._

Crowley switched the radio back off and floored the pedal.

They arrived at the Polish coast in the small hours of the morning. The beach was wide and sandy, Baltic in how the sea didn’t disappear with the tide. It took little effort to spot Uriel and her gang.

“What is this? A sand sculpture festival?”

They had drawn the sigil in the sand — deep groves and intricate lines, weighed down by the heavy, wet sand. It was enormous, Crowley realized as they approached. This must have taken them the better part of a day.

“You’re late,” Uriel called, annoyed, casting a short look over her shoulder before turning back to the demon who had the misfortune of being at the centre of her attention this very moment. The demon was listening intently, with wide eyes, and Crowley realized this demon probably had never been the centre of unleashed angelic intent.

Crusades, Crowley thought. They were a disease.

He walked up to Michael, with Aziraphale — tight-lipped, pale-faced — in tow.

“How long’s she been like this?”

“You’re late,” Michael said.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to come.”

Michael looked over at Aziraphale, then back at Crowley. “What convinced you?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance. Aziraphale shrugged, as though to say ‘your call’.

“ _Der zwanglose Zwang des besseren Arguments_ ,“ Crowley quipped. Michael did not seem impressed. She seemed like the type of angel to prefer Foucault over Habermas, anyway. Crowley decided to change the subject.

“So this is all ready?”

“We’ve had ample time to prepare. Uriel was only waiting for you to begin the summoning. In the meantime, we were doing some maintenance on the sigil.”

“How did you even find this thing?” Crowley gestured in the direction of the sigil, though he found looking at it for too long made him nervous. He turned to Aziraphale. “Could you do something like that?”

Aziraphale squirmed. “Given the proper time, of course...”

“Uriel dug it up,” Michael interjected. “She‘s crazy about all this stuff. Old mythology. She didn’t have much to do after they kicked her out of the Catholic canon of archangels.”

The wind blew another heavy gust. Crowley wrapped his coat tighter around himself. Late August had already morphed into autumn here. At least, he reasoned, he wouldn’t have to bear the weather for much longer. Once this was over, they’d all go home. Or — more likely — they’d all be too dead to care about the weather.

“Shall we get this started, then?”

Crowley clapped his hands together. Michael gave him a quizzical look. Aziraphale stood, a frown on his face suggesting he’d only just realized what they were going to do.

“Shouldn’t we... talk about this first?”

“Talk?” Uriel materialized at Aziraphale‘s shoulder like she hadn‘t been shouting down a demon just seconds ago. Crowley tried not to put too much thought into how strange their lives had become in the last few days. “What’s there to talk about?”

* * *

**ŁUKĘCIN, POLAND, DAY 13, END OF THE ROAD**

They didn’t stand in a circle around it. There weren’t enough of them. Crowley took that as a bad sign.

They gathered in a small group on the far side of the sigil from the water. They didn’t hold hands for the ritual, because that was someone people only did in stories. Crowley did reach for Aziraphale’s hand, though, and Aziraphale took it.

In that moment, Crowley knew it had all been worth it.

Uriel led the chant. She looked driven — a force of nature since before nature existed, a fighter since before there were wars to fight. An idealist. A zealot. Maybe the original zealot.

“That’s what Uriel means, you know,” Aziraphale whispered. “My light is God.”

“She looks like she believes it,” Crowley said.

“She knows it,” Aziraphale replied quietly.

Crowley did not expect to understand what was being said — still being cut off from his powers as he was — but he was surprised to find he did understand Uriel. Seemed he had not completely unlearned his earliest language.

Uriel entreated God’s justice. She called on Gabriel, who had abused his power, in the name of her brothers and sisters, the archangels, and all the other angels, and then in the name of humanity, and even in the name of the demons who were present. Crowley saw the surprised look on their faces, and figured they saw it mirrored in his.

Clouds gathered. Crowley knew they weren’t really clouds.

Lightning flashed. Crowley knew it wasn’t really lightning. Where the lightning struck, angels appeared.

“Foolish,” one of the angels hissed. It wasn’t Gabriel.

“You should know better than this, Uriel.”

The look she gave the angel was scathing. She continued.

More angels appeared, all of them outside of the circle of the sigil. None of them moved to stop Uriel though. They just stared, with the same blank-faced apprehension as the rest of them.

Waiting for orders.

Crowley tightened his hold on Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale squeezed back. Crowley couldn’t risk looking at him — it would distract him too much right now.

Nevermind, he had to look.

Aziraphale’s blond curls were messed up by the wind and not showering enough, regardless of angelic miracles he might perform to keep them in place. He still looked pale, but not like when he’d been unconscious. And there was a determination, a hardness to him that sat oddly on him, like an ill-fitting piece of clothing.

“This is foolish, Uriel.”

Gabriel's voice boomed across the beach.

Uriel gritted her teeth. Crowley thought he saw a bead of sweat run down her forehead – unlikely in a body that wasn’t really a body. But summoning Gabriel was clearly taking its toll on her.

There was flickering inside the circle. A shape, vaguely hominoid, was beginning to materialize. Crowley braced for impact.

“Stop this _now_ , Uriel!”

Gabriel’s barked order sounded frantic, desperate. A part of Crowley dared to hope he was scared. The more rational part reasoned it was all an act. Gabriel would be here in seconds, and then he would kill them all.

Dark clouds gathered in the centre of the sigil. The epicentre of the storm that was Gabriel. The uncontained power of an archangel. Except so far it was very much contained to the circle of the sigil.

“It’s working,” Aziraphale said.

“Don’t jinx it,” Crowley muttered, his stomach rebelling. He watched the angels that had already gathered in support of Gabriel, tried to measure their number against the ragtag group Uriel and Michael had managed to scrounge together.

Suddenly it hit him. They’d given up their position. Gabriel’s troops had found them. No more hiding.

It scared him, but underneath there was something else: the finality of the inevitable confrontation. That always brought freedom.

Crowley closed his eyes and reached out. The power waited for him like a dark lake on a moonless night, deep and still and familiar. He sunk gratefully into its depths, let it consume him and felt whole again for the first time in almost two weeks.

He opened his eyes again with a sharp breath.

There was a tingling that reached from his toes to the tips of his fingers to the crown of his head.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “It's good to have you back.”

Crowley squeezed back. “It's good to be back.”

A few heads had turned Crowley’s way, both angelic and demonic, but they quickly reoriented themselves towards the spectacle at the centre of the beach.

Gabriel’s form had become fully physical.

Uriel stood, lips tight, face pale.

“It’s contained.”

“You don’t have to do this, Uriel.” Gabriel said, a genial smile on his face. “Come on, we can talk about this...”

“This ends _now!_ ” Uriel shouted. She was enraged, bleeding righteous fury all over the sand.

The decision to charge was made all at once-angels, demons, everybody suddenly lunging for each other, and Crowley stood frozen in place, unable to move.

It was just like back then.

He was dimly aware of Aziraphale letting go of his hand and wading into the thick of it, but he couldn't move – stuck in a memory that was older than time itself.

_Who is like God?_

The question echoed. He saw Michael, tall, and righteous, and the epitome warrior, raising her sword with a scream of pure desperation on her lips, charging a line of Gabriel’s supporters. 

_Power of God._

Gabriel was brandishing Aziraphale’s flaming sword. He was the only one who could legitimately pull off the Heavenly uniform: bright like the sun. He still smiled, even as he was cutting down the first of Uriel’s troops that managed to reach him. They were simply an inconvenience to him.

_My light is God._

Uriel moved unerringly, methodically, even against her own brothers and sisters. She didn’t _think_ God was on her side, she _knew_ , and that made her powerful.

Crowley felt like he was on the cusp of a revelation. Then he caught sight of Aziraphale, far too close to Gabriel and the host of angelic bodyguards he’d gathered around himself.

“Aziraphale!”

A desperate shout. Aziraphale didn't react.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

A snarling voice next to his ear distracted Crowley. He whirled around and found himself face to face with Beelzebub. The grin on her face was broad. Crowley could feel the _schadenfreude_ oozing from her.

“You're making common cause with the angels now?” Crowley asked, dodged a blast of energy from Beelzebub.

“You're one to talk,” Beelzebub hissed.

She was trying to break his concentration, hit him so he'd let down his guard. Crowley knew all about how this worked. Though his last time on the frontlines was more than six millennia ago, battle instincts weren't something that vanished easily.

He wondered how Aziraphale was going to kill Gabriel.

The thought was rewarded with a sharp pain in Crowley's head where his defenses had slipped enough to allow in one of the demons. Psychological warfare. It gained a whole new dimension here.

But still Crowley wondered. Aziraphale hadn’t asked him to provide hellfire, probably conscious of the fact that summoning such a weapon would lead Crowley to reveal himself. That would have been too risky. But it was also risky to attempt to take on Gabriel with no weapon. no plan, no flaming sword, just bravado and a desire to end this.

“What do you get out of this?” Crowley asked Beelzebub, curiosity less genuine and more of an attempt to distract her.

Beelzebub tried to stab him, displaying the same lack of imagination that Crowley had always resented about hell. Stabbing him. How provincial. He snapped his fingers, and Beelzebub found herself dodging a column of flame.

“Don’t you see it, Crowley?” Beelzebub snapped her fingers and the column vanished. Crowley snarled. “Gabriel’s delusional. This is it. _We’re winning_.”

“This isn’t your bloody final war!” Crowley shouted back.

“It could be,” Beelzebub said. Crowley only just managed to dodge the attack from a demon who had been going for his back, and again he realised he’d lost sight of Aziraphale.

“Nice chatting,” he said. “But I gotta go.”

He snapped his fingers, and when he opened his eyes again, he was standing atop a rock formation a little ways from the battle.

Aziraphale was right in the middle of everything.

He’d acquired a sword, or something resembling a sword, and he was wielding it with a pained, panicked expression on his face. It reminded Crowley too much of how he’d found him in Heaven, how he’d been crying while cutting down training dummy after training dummy, only this was real. And Aziraphale wasn’t cut out for it.

He raised his hands, ready to transport himself to the spot where Aziraphale was currently doing his damndest to throw away his angel status, when a movement caught his eye. 

* * *

If Aziraphale ever had a reason to pray for strength, it was today.

It hurt him.

Every slice of his sword, whether it hit Gabriel’s lackeys or Beelzebub’s army of demons, hurt him. He wasn’t cut out for this. He’d never been good at fighting, not even when it had been a much less physical affair than this. Now, it was torture.

He could see Gabriel, from time to time.

Gabriel had to know that Aziraphale wanted to get to him. He had to know – then again, revenge wasn’t usually the angelic instinct. And maybe Aziraphale just wasn’t that good of a fighter, and Gabriel’s bodyguards were shielding him because he was the centre of this.

Armageddon.

He’d always known that it’d come to this, eventually.

No, he hadn’t. He shook his head, to dispel some of Crowley’s fatalism. Crowley had known, and Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to know, until he woke up back in Heaven with Gabriel looming over him, grinning. For a while, Aziraphale had been sure God had abandoned him. But in the end, She always found ways to show Her support.

Aziraphale was certain she was with him now.

A demon charged towards Aziraphale. He struck him down. In the middle of the circle in the sand, Gabriel stood – a commander at the heart of his forces, but also trapped.

 _All of us against all of them_ , Crowley had said. He hadn’t sounded excited or dejected about it back then, he’d just accepted it. But faced with the unforgiving reality of it, he’d caved – and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. They’d finally been able to let their guard down. It was hard to go back to war footing after that.

He didn’t know where Crowley was. He hoped Crowley was safe, but he was also scared that Crowley would try to stop him at the last moment. He couldn’t afford that. Gabriel had begun Armageddon, but worse, he’d used Aziraphale to do it. Aziraphale, who had only ever wanted things to remain the same, within reason. He’d never meant for his rebellion to be used… like this.

No, Gabriel had made it personal.

Aziraphale was cutting himself a path.

He was getting closer to Gabriel now, the archangel’s forces crumbling under the first wave. He was so close now that he could feel the power of the magic Uriel had worked to contain her fellow archangel, the force of it like a blast wave on Aziraphale’s face.

Then something rippled across the battlefield.

* * *

Crowley whirled around, adopting his best attempt at a defensive stance.

An angel had snuck up on him.

It was a relief that he could tell that again.

“Relax,” the angel said. Crowley wasn’t inclined to take his advice.

He raised his hand again.

“Will you _stop_!”

The power fizzled out of Crowley’s hand like a lighter out of fluid. He stared at his hand, horrified, and for a long, terrible moment he was sure he had been turned human without his consent and now he’d have to live like this, powerless, useless, while Aziraphale was killing himself still believing Crowley would be with him forever. He stared back at the angel, and something itched at the back of his mind again.

_Who is like God?_

Something one of the angels had said at some point. Maybe something Father Mihály had said. Something about a balance that was upset. He couldn’t place it.

“What did you do?” Crowley asked, panicking.

The angel looked at Crowley like he was trying to gauge something.

“What did _you_ do?” He countered.

Crowley looked at him, uncomprehending. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the angel, but something felt wrong. Something felt incredibly wrong. Left-the-stove-on wrong. Persistent and nagging and –

“Sisters!” The angel boomed. Crowley flinched. “Brothers.”

The noise, Crowley thought. The noise of the battle had stopped.

“Who _are_ you?” Crowley asked.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” the angel responded, and then he was gone.

Crowley followed him.

Down on the beach, the crowd of angels and demons parted for him – the angels with open mouths, shock painted on their faces, the demons reluctantly, hissing and quietly taunting him. Crowley felt the lack of power as painfully as he’d felt it the last few weeks.

“You’re killing yourself doing that,” Gabriel called.

At the centre of the sigil and the destruction and the fighting he looked pale, but Crowley had no way of knowing if it was the sudden appearance of the unnamed angel or the fight that had taken it out of him.

“You’re killing yourself persisting on this path,” the angel responded.

“Yes, but you’ll be dead first,” Gabriel jeered, then let out a pained grunt. “I’m _right_ and you know it. _This is what She wants_.”

“You can’t know that,” Uriel spat.

Crowley finally caught sight of Aziraphale. His coat was torn, he had burns on his face, but he looked alive, which was a relief. Crowley began to make his way over to him, carefully.

“So you finally decided to join the fight, Raphael?”

Michael’s voice came from somewhere to Crowley’s right. He caught a brief glimpse of her face: her hair was frazzled, but there was a colour to her cheeks that spoke of elation. Even though she didn’t want to, she was enjoying this. Ever the general. 

Raphael?

Crowley looked at the angel again.

“I’m not here to fight,” the angel said, and Gabriel was right, he did sound more strained now. Whatever he was doing to keep their powers suspended, it wasn’t good for him.

“Then get out of the way,” Uriel hissed.

Raphael looked at her, and the small smile at the corner of his mouth was rueful.

“Would it kill you to listen to me?”

“Right now, it’s killing you,” Uriel retorted, urgency and pleading mixing in her voice, “Get out of the way.”

“You’re all still stuck in your ways,” Raphael said, “Even I. We can’t help it.”

Crowley must have been imagining it, but for a second he felt like Raphael caught his eye.

“At least, most of us.”

Crowley was now halfway through the crowd to Aziraphale, and people were starting to take note of him. He gave a couple of demons a nervous smile, and hoped they hadn’t read the company memos over the last couple of decades. The angels didn’t seem happier with him, but that was par for the course.

He just had to be ready when Raphael… fainted, or dropped whatever spell he had put over the battlefield.

“Uriel. I know things look so clear to you. You showed me once, remember?”

Crowley hadn’t seen Raphael in so long, he’d almost forgotten how amicable his tone was. You wanted to agree with him.

“Please, don’t let it be your downfall, sister.”

Uriel lowered her head but not her sword. Raphael sighed.

“You, then, Gabriel? Will you persist on this path? Will you really destroy everything She has built here, to fulfil some prophecy you can’t even know is true? You must know doubt. Every soldier has doubts.”

Crowley tried to gauge Gabriel’s reaction, but the man had a smile frozen to his face that was unreadable.

Raphael, seeing something that Crowley couldn’t, shook his head.

“Michael, you know they’re all children, don’t you.”

“Uriel is right,” Michael responded. “If we don’t stop Gabriel, we lose everything.”

“You forget one thing, Raphael,” Gabriel jeered. “You’re stuck in your ways as well. Ever the peacemaker.”

“You make it sound like an insult,” Raphael mused. “I always thought of it as a high honour.”

He winced.

“You can’t make them see reason,” Michael pleaded. “Stop, please, before you kill yourself.”

Crowley was still staring at the archangels, transfixed. Locked in their battle, all of them, because they hadn’t managed to shake of their nature. Gabriel, the general, and Uriel, the zealot, and Michael with her sense for justice. And Raphael, the healer.

It happened as quickly as the whole thing had started: Raphael twitched, and then he fell to the side, and suddenly every miracle that had been held back was released upon the beach at once. Crowley dropped to his knees, felt something burning his cheek, cold sand pressing against his forehead, and waited – what for, he didn’t know.

And then the wailing started.

“No!”

The voice was inhuman, which wasn’t exactly a unique feature on this beach. It rose and fell in tone, a long scream.

After a second, Crowley recognised it as Michael’s.

He got up.

Michael was kneeling on the beach, her body bent forward over the unmoving figure of Raphael, but she was looking to her right, where Crowley saw Aziraphale, sword in hand.

Standing next to Gabriel’s prone form. 

“You did this!” Another voice, howling.

At first Crowley didn’t realise the angry voice meant him. Then Beelzebub came charging out of the crowd, only narrowly restrained by three angels, and Crowley found himself praying they were on his side.

“You brought him here! We could have won,” she howled, spit flying out of her mouth. “I’m going to _kill_ you.”

Suddenly, Uriel was at his side.

“You need to get him out of here.”

She pointed at Aziraphale. Blood-soaked, shell-shocked Aziraphale. Uriel pushed Crowley, hard.

“Now!”

The message was clear: the battle was over.

The fallout, however, was going to be its own hell.

Crowley scrambled to his feet. He wondered how long the whole thing had taken. Seconds? Hours? Minutes? He tried to get a sense of the time and came up short. It felt deeply unsettling.

He staggered over to Aziraphale. His angel had dropped the sword. Crowley got a hold of the sleeve of his coat, now ruined.

“Angel,” he said. “Angel, we gotta go.”

“I killed him, Crowley.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why we gotta go.”

Once upon a time, he had stood before Aziraphale and begged him to run away from the impending apocalypse. Now he was asking him to run so they could avoid the consequences.

He took Aziraphale’s hand, linked his fingers firmly with Aziraphale’s. Then he snapped his fingers.

* * *

**PIAZZA DEL POPOLO, ROME, DAY 13, BACK ON THE ROAD**

The air was dry and hot. Crowley noticed the noise first – the cars, horns, people yelling to each other, a nearby church bell ringing. Then he noticed that Aziraphale was starting to let go of his hand.

He stopped him before the angel could wander into oncoming Roman traffic.

“Now, where do you think you’re going?”

“I killed him, Crowley.”

Crowley was beginning to think this might prove a bigger sticking point then he would have anticipated from Aziraphale’s original zeal to kill Gabriel. Evidently, the angel had overestimated his own thirst for revenge.

“In a couple of hundred years, academics won’t be so sure.”

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand and took a careful hold of his arm.

“Now come, this way.”

The plaza was crowded, literally _crowded_ – droves of tourists huddled together, some at least had the decency to stay out of Crowley’s way, but others weren’t fast enough and felt the onslaught of his fury. The lucky ones found themselves only pushed to the side. One or two unlucky ones ended up in the fountain. Oh, it was good to be back.

Aziraphale was too stunned to do anything but let himself be led by Crowley. Crowley took full advantage of that.

The door was still off to the side of the fence in the little alley, not locked but grown tight with vines. Crowley touched the handle of the door and they withered away. From behind the fence came a shout.

“Hey! Stop that right –“

Crowley opened the door and grinned at Felix.

“You miss me?”

The faun looked too relieved for the lie to sound plausible. “No.”

* * *

Felix brought them back to his little studio. Crowley sank into the velvet of the sofa gratefully – he hadn’t begun to feel the exhaustion in his muscles until the stairs down into the underbelly of the stadium, but then it had hit with a vengeance. He estimated he had maybe three hours left before he crashed. Then he remembered he was no longer constrained by the requirements of his corporation.

He decided he was no longer tired.

The emotional exhaustion, however, remained.

“I see you’re no longer scared of pursuers,” Felix commented.

“We resolved that issue,” Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale. He wasn’t actually sure that they had resolved it, but getting Aziraphale out of the sight of anyone who might want to harm him had taken priority. They’d know they weren’t safe when the next angel death squad showed up at the doorstep of Felix’s little stadium.

It occurred to Crowley that he hadn’t even introduced his friend.

“Aziraphale, this is Felix. He helped me when you –“ He paused. “–You know.”

Aziraphale, who seemed to have gathered himself a little bit, nodded. He was putting on a brave face, Crowley could tell now.

“Thank you.”

He did a double take after addressing Felix. Felix grinned.

“Yeah, I know. Weird, right?”

“He’s a faun!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

It would never cease to amaze Crowley how a simple wonder of creation could transform Aziraphale so thoroughly.

“They’re not as bad as everyone says,” he replied. He didn’t want Felix to get too many ideas.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale said to Felix, with a glare in Crowley’s direction that admonished Crowley to be polite to their host, probably. As if Crowley hadn’t been there for every single time Felix picked his guests clean after a lavish feast, laughing and carrying away his stolen treasures to buy wine for his God and food for the poor. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he was far from a good one, in Crowley’s book.

That’s why they had gotten along so well.

“So it all worked out, then?”

He gave Crowley a critical look.

“Sort of.”

Crowley suddenly felt an uncomfortable nagging sensation. He didn’t like the way Felix looked at him.

“Did you know…”

No, he couldn’t have, Crowley reasoned.

But shit, he had to ask.

“Did you know what Father Mihály was going to suggest I do?”

Felix closed his eyes. “So you did go to see him.”

“Where else would I have gone?” Crowley shot back. “I was _desperate_.”

Aziraphale was watching the two of them with very attentive eyes.

Felix sighed.

“You always take everything so personally, Antonio.”

His tone had switched – he was no longer the young, happy-go-lucky community organiser. There was something older, something less kind in him, too.

“That could have killed me.”

“You would have died, anyway.”

Felix shrugged. Crowley remembered every man, woman, or child that had ever come to Felix from an impossible situation, and the prices they were willing to pay for a solution. It seemed Crowley had become one of the desperate souls.

He barked out a laugh, then fell back in on himself. Now that he was no longer faced with giving up his immortality as the only prospect to save Aziraphale, it occurred to him just how much he valued it. He _liked_ existing.

Felix sat up, rather suddenly.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s someone at the door.”

Crowley’s blood ran cold. So they had found them again. He cursed.

“Aziraphale,” he said, taking his hand, “get out of here. Don’t tell me where you’re going, I’ll find you if I can but if I don’t –“

The reality of it hit him again, all of what they had done, individually and together. What it meant: that their path together might very well come to an end, here and today. He took a deep breath.

“I love –“

“I’m not leaving,” Aziraphale said. His eyes allowed for no argument.

“That’s very sweet,” Felix said. “I’ll get the door.”

Crowley got up to follow him. Felix waved it aside.

“Please. No need to confirm that you’re here, even if they already know it.”

“It might be one of our allies,” Aziraphale objected.

They all made their way back upstairs.

It reminded Crowley of Heaven, this strange, empty stadium full of concrete hallways, eerie light, and devoid of people. It reminded him of Heaven in the worst way, and the weeks he’d struggled to get Aziraphale back. He just wanted it all to be over. He had reached the limits of what he could bear.

Crowley and Aziraphale flanked Felix as he opened the door. Crowley felt about ready to vomit as the gate creaked open, but then it was only Uriel pushing her head through the vine-infested mesh wire gate, and Crowley thought that he couldn’t take much more of this.

“How did you find us?” He asked.

“The tracker’s still on,” Uriel confirmed his fears, “You’re lucky they’re all too busy to look for you or your friend right now.”

She reached out for Crowley, but stopped herself with her hand hovering just out of touching range. “Actually, if you’d let me…”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a glance. Aziraphale nodded. He seemed to trust Uriel. Crowley let her.

Uriel touched Crowley’s chest lightly, and a chill went through him.

“There we go.”

They settled back in Felix’s bachelor pad. The faun didn’t seem too happy with the collection of angels and demons he was amassing. Crowley tossed him a gin and tonic from his own fridge to placate him. Felix flipped him off.

Aziraphale settled at the edge of one of the couches, apprehensive.

“Is Raphael…”

Uriel seemed dejected, though her eyes had the same determined look to them as they’d had before the battle. She was someone who knew the necessity of things, Crowley realised. She could justify anything, if she thought it was the right thing to do.

“Yes.”

Crowley let out a slow breath. Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. After a moment, he leaned into Crowley. Crowley wrapped an arm around him, reflexively.

“And Gabriel?”

Uriel just nodded.

“How far behind us are they?” Crowley asked. He was going to have to be pragmatic, even if it seemed callous to Aziraphale.

“A couple of hours, I would think. But I don’t know…”

Uriel was clenching and un-clenching her right hand compulsively.

“Things seem different, don’t they?”

“Do they?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale in his arms, who had been put through hell repeatedly in the last two weeks. He looked at Uriel, who had stepped up as a leader when no one would believe her. He thought about himself and the things he’d had to do, and it all seemed very much the same and yet very different.

“I don’t think things ever change much.”

“But we provided proof. Or they did. It doesn’t matter what we do. Things go on. There is no plan.”

Uriel linked her fingers together, trying to keep her hands still.

“Gabriel made a deal with the enemy and it didn’t matter. You and Aziraphale haven’t been obliterated despite your many sins against Heaven. All of Gabriel’s cronies are still here, but so are we and it… doesn’t matter.”

She whispered the last words.

 _Oh_ , Crowley thought. He knew that feeling.

“Having doubts there, archangel?”

Immediately, her fury was back. “What do you know about that?”

Crowley just grinned. He couldn’t help it. In the face of everything, the sight of an archangel losing faith was still too amusing to him.

“Leave her alone, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed. And to Uriel he said, “He doesn’t mean it. He’s just tired.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, offended. Aziraphale put a hand on his leg, casually, familiar, and it stunned Crowley enough to shut him up.

“You don’t think they’ll search for us, do you?” Aziraphale asked. Putting on a brave face again, Crowley thought. Only Aziraphale sounded like he was back to himself – still shaken but determined.

“If they did, I would be surprised,” Uriel admitted, finally. She gave Crowley a bitter look, and Crowley felt a little bad – her faith had been shaken and he’d had nothing better to do than to gloat about it. But it was all he knew how to do.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley.

“Let’s go home, then.”

“Won’t they look for us, there?”

Aziraphale shrugged, and Crowley could see a little bit of the insecurity through the set of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I want to go home.”

They went home.

* * *

**DOVER, UNITED KINGDOM, DAY 27**

Crowley fiddled with the knob of the car stereo. He wasn’t looking for a station, so much as for something to do with his hands as the world rushed past them. Driving took far less effort than it had two weeks ago. With his powers restored, one problem solved, other problems he’d pushed back now bubbled to the surface, demanding attention. 

Instead, he switched on the radio.

Some dark-voiced man that wasn’t Freddie Mercury crooned on, about believing, and whether it was a blessing or a curse. 

Crowley had enough of car radios that addressed him with topical songs. He switched it off again. Aziraphale, next to him, watched him with a soft smile on his lips.

A little while later, Crowley stood atop the chalk cliff, far closer to the edge than was recommended in the guidebook he’d found on the passenger seat of the Bentley. Its interim owner hadn’t treated the car with as much reverence as Crowley would have liked. Crowley, in turn, hadn’t treated him with the same amount of respect he would have had he treated the Bentley better. Crowley was sure he was enjoying his lonely island vacation. Or he would, until he ran out of sweet water.

He hadn’t told Aziraphale about that.

It was windy up here, but Crowley didn’t feel it. He simply expected not to be cold and reality bent to his will. He was getting used to that again.

Before him, the flat surface of the North Sea stretched into the nebulous nothing where it was impossible to find a horizon with the fog over the water and the clouds in the sky. Crowley knew that France was somewhere on the other side, and the rest of Europe – recovering, now that Gabriel no longer had a hand on the self-destruct button. It was still going to take some time to heal.

Breathing felt good out here.

He’d been on the verge of going crazy in Aziraphale’s bookshop, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door. It was hard for him to believe that their luck was going to hold, even when Aziraphale smiled and said that it would.

The crunching of gravel and grass underfoot let Crowley know that Aziraphale was coming up behind him.

“Looking for something?” He asked.

Crowley turned to him and smiled. “No invaders coming.”

“Told you,” Aziraphale said.

They fell silent again. Aziraphale stared out at the water with Crowley, listening to the wind and the roaring of the waves and the cries of the gulls, like every holiday Crowley had cursed bored eight-year-olds to take with their parents. He found he kind of liked it.

Aziraphale shifted his body, pointed North-East.

“That’s where I killed him.”

He hadn’t spoken much about it. When he said it now, he said it matter-of-factly. Crowley had never known Aziraphale to be anything but set in his ways. Maybe this was just another role he was settling into, like that of bookshop-owner. They had all done drastic things, in the name of kindness and in the name of cruelty, and in the name of things that had to be done.

“That’s where you killed him,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale dropped his arm, the energy gone out of it again.

“It must mean something, Crowley.”

He said it energetically, firmly. Crowley understood the impulse – if She didn’t care, then who were they, really? What did their deeds still mean? But he hadn’t felt the comforting hand of faith in millennia.

“Otherwise we’re all just powerful beings on a rampage. We won, in the end. Saved humanity again. That must mean something.”

“Waiting for your punishment. That’s very Catholic of you,” Crowley quipped. He slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s – quietly, unobtrusively. It felt like it belonged.

“I think we were right,” Aziraphale decided, squinting out over the Channel. Crowley took comfort in the feeling of Aziraphale’s hand in his, warm and soft, proof that he was alive because Crowley had taken fate into his own hands.

“I think we were,” he said, and didn’t mean quite the same thing.

* * *

_I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe hence forth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy._

\- Albert Camus

**Author's Note:**

> Please do consider leaving a comment, and/or heading to [songbird-of-eden](https://songbird-of-eden.tumblr.com/)'s tumblr to let her know how beautiful her art is!


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